


Cry 'Havoc': To Mutiny and Rage

by Tea-Diva (Revenant)



Series: Cry 'Havoc' series [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adaptation, Amnesia, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Slow Build, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicide, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Tea-Diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evan Wright, CIA Deputy Director, is in Berlin, Germany when an op he’s running goes south; his only clue points to someone named Brad Colbert whose information is above Evan’s clearance. Nate Fick knows all about Brad Colbert, but he’s living in Madrid working at a CIA outpost behind a desk; after the fiasco in Paris, no one can begrudge him wanting to keep his distance from assets. For his part, Brad Colbert has been hopping from place-to-place, never staying in one city long. He hasn’t been to Germany before; not that he can remember. How his thumbprint got to Berlin when he was 4,000 miles away living in India is something he intends to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries _Generation Kill_. I do not own the characters or the series, or the book that inspired it; nor am I profiting from this in any way. I intend no disrespect to the real men on whom the book was based.
> 
> Read @ [LiveJournal](http://tea-diva.livejournal.com/9616.html)  
> 

**Madrid, Spain  
8:46 PM (CET)**

Nate lets out his breath in a whoosh, his forehead propped up by one hand as the other holds the phone to his ear. “Mike,” he says. “You’re worrying too much. It’s quiet here, that’s all.”

Mike Wynn’s voice is wry when he answers, _“You live in Madrid, Nate.”_

Nate doesn’t say that it is possible to make even a big city like Madrid small simply by keeping to a strict routine. Mike knows all about fading into the shadows when it’s necessary but Nate is fairly certain his friend would not consider it ‘necessary’ right now. 

_“It’s been two years...”_ Mike continues in that tone he always uses whenever he brings it up. Nate resists the urge to point out that it hasn’t actually been two years _yet_. Not only is it a moot point, but it probably won’t help his case to reveal that he’s keeping such close track. He’s not obsessing, he’s just meticulous. It’s part of his job to keep up with things. This is more habit than anything else…

Yeah, he doesn’t believe that any more than Mike probably would.

Instead, Nate says, “I don’t see how that makes any difference.”   
_  
“It makes a difference,”_ Mike insists. _“You’re not supposed to be sitting behind a desk pushing papers. You’re meant to be doing work like you were in Paris; getting out there, actually becoming involved in some of the stuff in those files you have to sort through. You keep saying you’re doing what you need to be doing but I’m not seeing it.”_

“You will,” Nate promises just like he always does. There’s nothing Mike can say that will alter Nate’s opinion on this. He changes the topic. “Don’t you have a wife you should be getting back to? What are you doing working at the office this late?”

_“I could ask the same of you.”_

“Me?” Nate smiles. “I was on my way home before you called, you stalker.” He appreciates his friend’s concern, and he’s not foolish enough to pretend he doesn’t see the truth in Mike’s words, but that doesn’t change anything.

Nate is where he needs to be, and he’s still waiting.

____________________________

**Goa, India  
1:16 AM (IST)**

Brad considers himself a highly adaptable individual. He can’t be certain he was always that way, but ever since he woke up on a fishing boat off the coast of Marseilles with absolutely no recollection of who he might be, he’s pretty certain he qualifies now.

Their place in Goa is crappy. It has a thatched roof, two bedrooms, a kitchen attached to the main living space and a green foldout couch with stuffing spilling out of the left armrest. Brad says, “Stop picking at it, Ray.”

“Dude, it was like that before I even got here! You can’t hold me responsible.”

There is only one door in the entire cabin, and one bathroom. The door is not to get into the bathroom. 

Brad staggers in, kicking off his shoes and wrestling his way out of his shirt as he moves towards his bedroom. He’s not nearly as drunk as he was hoping to be, and he gets a splinter off the rough wooden floorboards the moment he takes his socks off. “Mother _fucker_.”

“Serves you right for spurning your shoes,” Ray calls from the front room.

“I’m not sleeping in my goddamned shoes, Ray,” Brad mutters. 

He hated the little ramshackle hut pretty much on sight but they’ve ended up living in it for six months. At night, he listens to the waves rushing up on the beach and he sleeps. For the most part, he tries not to dream.

Most nights, he’s not that lucky…

____________________________

**Berlin, Germany  
9:02 PM (CET)**

Evan feels that he is a fairly simple sort of man. He likes people who are direct and honest, he believes in give-and-take and subscribes to a general philosophy of ‘live and let live’. More often than not, his girlfriends are the ones to leave him and usually it’s with a similar complaint: apparently, he’s too laid back. Evan doesn’t even know where to begin with that one, so he just says, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” which only seems to make the situation worse.

He’s not entirely certain how he ended up working for the CIA. Some time during college he discovered a sense of latent patriotism that started coloring his decisions and somewhere along a stretch of righteous decisions spurred by a determination to ‘do the right thing’ he ended up in Langley, Virginia where the ‘right’ thing isn’t necessarily as uncomplicated as people like to think.

It makes him feel a bit like he’s two very different people because the truth is, Evan is laid-back and easygoing but he also loves his job. He revels in the bullshit and the red herrings and wild goose chases that the higher ups send him on. Likes matching his wits against everyone else’s and seeing where he comes out because more often than not, it’s on top. 

Apparently, he is damned good at compartmentalizing.

It’s different though, being a deputy director instead of an assistant to a deputy director. For one, there’s the responsibility. For the other, there is the endless red tape. Evan sort of misses sitting around with his heels kicked up until someone came and told him, “We’re a go, agent”, but the thrill of managing every aspect of an actual operation? It’s sort of worth all the bureaucratic bullcrap right there.

“Okay, people,” he says. “I want one final go around.”

Beside him, Espera nods his head sharply and takes over: “All right, all teams listen up. We are standing by for final green.” Over the comms Evan’s teams report one-by-one, cool and efficient, each one confirming visual contact with their undercover operative. All that’s left is the last bit of red tape and Evan can give them a green light.

____________________________

**Madrid, Spain  
9:02 PM (CET)**

It’s dark when he steps out of his office. There’s a streetlamp across the road that flickers, offering a shadowed glow over the street. Nate glances around before he turns back to the door, twists his key in the lock and tests the handle. Sometimes the door sticks.

There’s a warm heat in the air and as he adjusts his bag over his shoulder Nate spares a wistful thought for the grey, rainy coolness of Paris in winter. He remembers that when he had first stepped off the plane at Charles de Gaulle he’d immediately disliked the weather. It was too grey, too much precipitation. It was nothing like the romantic little photographs he had seen on postcards and in the photo albums of his friends. Paris in winter was apparently quite a different place than Paris in summer.

Nate had a similar reaction when he arrived in Madrid: too bright, too warm. He sighs, the grass is always greener but the truth is he sort of loves Madrid and that makes him irritable and uncomfortable. He didn’t come here to settle down and start fresh, no matter what he says every time someone calls from Langley, _“We’ve got an opening in Sydney, Agent Fick.”_

More and more frequently a mission report comes across his desk to be filed, and Nate reads it through and thinks: “No, I would have done it this way.” He tells himself that this isn’t supposed to be easy, and that the moment it becomes so is probably the precise moment he’s given up. Nate refuses to give up. 

There are certain things he knows and holds to be true with absolute certainty. This may not be one of those certainties. He may be living on a ‘what if’, but he doesn’t think so. He can't bring himself to think so.

He reaches the vibrant pinkish-orange building that he calls home. The window frames and shutters are white, so is his front door. Nate's apartment is situated above a panaderia. In the morning he wakes to the smell of freshly baking bread. As he climbs the steps he sees a green wicker basket covered in a yellow cloth. 

Just like always, Nate braces himself and inspects it closely but it's merely a harmless basket filled with baked goods. Mrs. Ramos runs the bakery but she’s also Nate’s landlady. She thinks he is a student studying abroad. She is convinced he doesn’t eat enough. Picking up the basket, Nate unlocks his apartment door and heads inside. 

His apartment is empty, just like always.

____________________________

**Goa, India  
1:32 AM (IST)**

It’s disappointing as hell, but it not unsurprising.

Brad wakes up after barely managing to get to sleep. His head is aching and his ears are still ringing with the sounds of a remembered gunshot. He’s not melodramatic about his nightmares. He doesn’t wake up screaming or anything, but he knows by now that there’s no point trying to go back to sleep right away. It’s probably the sound of the creaking floorboards that wake the other two men that share the hut. 

Walt is pouring out three glasses of scotch when Brad wanders out to the front room. “Did you write it down?” He holds out a glass to Brad and looks entirely too optimistic for this hour of the night. “Sooner or later, you’re going to remember something good.” Remembering something good isn’t Brad’s problem. Not exactly.

At the very center of his notebook, spanning both sides of the page is a steady march of handwriting, cramped and cutting together like a crossword puzzle. As far as he knows everything on those pages: the words, the images, the memories, are of the same person. 

Brad can breathe in and remember the warm spice smell of cloves underlying the bright sharpness of citrus: limes, or maybe oranges, mixing with the faint smell of coffee. He can feel the other man’s fingers on his skin, remember the way the other man would hold him, can hear his voice even, but Brad still has no idea who the man is, or what he looks like. Whenever he tries to push for more detail, the whole thing disappears.

It’s the one memory that Brad actually wants, but it’s the one that keeps eluding him.

Instead, he remembers the faces of people he’s killed, and flashes of people that he knew in another life; people who worked with him, who he worked for. People he genuinely wants to forget. They linger, their faces coming clear to him, their words echoing.

He works backwards, tries to figure out the web he was a part of. Fills in the pieces of Treadstone when he can, the chain of command and the motivation behind it. He theorizes about why he was asked to kill the people he remembers. 

As much as Brad would prefer the project to be entirely independent, Ray steals the journal all the time and flips through it when Brad is out on his morning run. When he returns, there are printouts of newspaper articles on his victims, about their lives and also their deaths. Brad skims through them, thinks: ‘Maybe that was why?’ but it never seems like a good enough reason. Apparently, when Brad lost his memories he remembered his own conscience.

Walt reads exactly what Brad’s thinking. “You’re not that guy anymore.” 

Brad tips the scotch back and swallows it all in a single shot. The burn is smooth and satisfying. “Then who am I?” he asks. Walt never has an answer to that, but he never drops Brad’s gaze whenever he asks. Like he’s waiting for Brad to tell him. Maybe he has a point.

Ray, however, never fails to comes up with a response and this time is no exception. He staggers blearily over to the table and gropes for his own glass, which he proceeds to hold up in a toast as he declares: “You’re the dude who’s going to go out and get us something to eat! If we’re continuing to party we need some decent wings. Pick up some alcohol while you’re out!”

Brad raises an eyebrow. “Ray, why don’t _you_ pick up some alcohol?”

“Are you kidding?” Ray asks. “With this young, pretty face of mine? They’ll card me! You _know_ what happened the last time they carded me.”

The last time Ray was carded they all ended up having to leave Odesa in a bit of a hurry. Ray Person may travel with three separate identities in his bag at all times, but he never remembers the names on any of the false passports Brad has procured for him. Considering the man was a Recon Marine, Brad is confident Ray does it just to be an ass or to make a point, but never because he genuinely forgets. 

At any other time Brad would put up more resistance but the fresh air and the chance to get up and get moving always seem to help him shake off the memories. He suspects that Ray is aware of this. It's troubling, how well Walt and Ray both seem to know him after such a relatively short span of time. 

Finishing off his glass, Brad glowers at the dark haired man. “Do you know what time it is?”

Ray shrugs, swirling the amber liquid around in his glass. “Go to that bar that has the hot sauce that burns like acid. I like that place.”

“You mean the one that you’re always too scared to go into?” Walt asks.

“Bitch, please. I’m not scared. I just caught the look that dude was giving me, and I don’t fancy being eaten alive by some Indian biker gang, or whatever shady business those dudes were a part of. Nobody’ll mess with Brad, though. I mean, _look_ at him!”

____________________________

**Berlin, Germany  
9:02 PM (CET)**

It’s not unsurprising that Langley’s primary concern is the amount of money this operation is costing them. “We’re talking about a thief here. A mole,” Evan argues. “If this accomplishes nothing but a more restricted list of suspects then it’s still a bargain, even at ten times the price.”  
 _  
“Hub, this is Survey Two,”_ one of his agents says over comms. _“Escort is breaking off. Mobile One is entering the building.”_

Evan is rapidly running out of time. “Gentlemen,” he says. “I have the seller on-site and in play. Quite frankly, at this time there really isn’t more to discuss.”

Of course he gets the green light. If you give an inch Langley will stomp you into the ground, but Evan knows he has the support of his superior, and he’s confident in his agents and in this operation. He knows better than to show any hesitancy when he’s speaking to the people who make the big calls.

_“Hub, Mobile One and Seller have entered the office.”_

There’s the stutter-stop smoothness of Russian over the comms as their undercover agent speaks with the seller, confirms that all the documents are present. Everything is quiet, the precision radios so sensitive that Evan can hear the rustle of papers as his agent verifies that the seller is speaking the truth. They’re so close.

There’s a pop, like a heavy book dropping on the ground, and on the screens all the lights in the building where Evan’s operative is making the deal suddenly blink off. “What the hell just happened?” Espera asks at the same time that Evan says, “What’s going on?”

Survey One is on comms confirming that all the lights in the building are indeed off, and their report almost completely obscures the quick ‘snap snap, snap snap’ transmitting over Mobile One’s radio.

“Shit,” Espera says. “That was gunfire. Someone’s got a silencer on their weapon.”

Their agent is not equipped with a silencer.

Espera gets on comms, demanding the Survey Teams report what happened. No one has any visuals, no one knows what’s going on.

“Get some men in there!” Evan snaps. “Right now! _Go!_ ” He waits as his agents move in, but he already knows what happened before anyone confirms it: he’s just lost two agents, three million dollars, and any chance he might have had at finding the mole inside the CIA.


	2. Chapter One

He wakes up instantly, without transition or hesitancy. One moment his eyes are closed and he is deeply dreaming. The next moment his eyes are open and he is alert. Brad has long-since stopped assuming this is anything but habit. It has nothing to do with the content of his dreams even if, just like yesterday, the opening of his eyes perfectly corresponds with the echoing memory of a gunshot silencing a woman’s desperate pleading.

Brad doesn’t have nightmares he has memories. 

They come to him like shards of glass, fragmented and senseless until he can piece them together. It’s been almost two years since he woke up on a fishing trawler with no idea who he was or how he got there and he still hasn’t filled in most of the gaps.

Shifting to the edge of his bed, Brad gropes for the notebook and pen he keeps in the nightstand drawer. He flips open to a blank page and makes a point form notation: Car, nighttime, raining, Dowdy, first mission, room 645. The rushing lull of the surf rolling up the beach is like a balm. It’s not until Brad shoves the book back in the drawer and pushes it closed that he realizes his breathing is evening out. That he realizes he was breathing in anything but a steady cadence.

It’s early; the sun hasn’t yet fought its way over the horizon. There is no sound except the roaring rush of the water on the beach. He grabs a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from the dresser and walks to the bathroom, pulling the curtain closed and flicking on the light.

The tiles are a jaundiced, pickled yellow that run from ceiling to floor. Nothing about the ramshackle bungalow is particularly attractive but Brad feels more settled here than he has in any other city in which he has lived. He suspects this has something to do with the nearness to the water.

The toilet groans and clanks when he flushes it, and the sink makes a low gurgling sound when he turns the faucet to brush his teeth. Brad’s certain the noise has woken both Walt and Ray, but he is equally confident that the routine is familiar enough that both men have dismissed the sound and returned to sleep.

Stripping out of the boxer-briefs he slept in he dresses quickly, sitting on the bed as he laces his running shoes and then makes his way through the front room, past the mess of blankets and limbs that is Ray tucked in a makeshift nest on the fold-out coach. 

The morning is fresh and Brad draws in a long breath of it. Stepping down the precariously balanced, creaking front steps and onto the sand, he takes a moment to consider his route. He turns east in the direction of the water and the stretch of beach and the slow creep of the sun over the horizon. Running along the shore is something Brad has discovered he enjoys, but common sense teams up with his own instincts preventing him from following the same track every day on his morning runs. There is routine and then there is predictability, and Brad makes a point of avoiding the latter. 

Predictability gets people killed.

________________________

Evan closes the door on the cacophony of computer programs beeping, the clatter of dozens of fingers typing on keyboards, and the raised squawking voices of sixteen desk agents shouting at each other and into telephones in a desperate search for answers.

He should be out there but he needs a moment so instead he’s in here, collapsing into a scratchy, cloth-covered chair that smells faintly of cigars. Idly, he wonders if whomever actually works in this office is permitted to smoke inside, or if the chair actually dates back to a time when smoking inside was not only acceptable but also common. The scratchy tweed cloth certainly looks as if it belongs back in the ‘60s.

Less than three hours ago, Evan was running an op that he’d been prepping for months. Two skilled agents that he knew and had worked with for half a decade were alive, and his ears hadn’t been ringing with the sound of detonating C4 echoing through sensitive comms that were designed to pick up the faintest whisper.

“Sir,” Espera says, opening the door after a hasty knock. He narrows his eyes at Evan, and then glances back out to the office before shutting the door. “You okay, sir?”

Evan sits up in his chair and schools his expression. “I’m fine. What have you got?”

Espera looks like he’s considering calling him out on the façade but it’s not the right time, and they both know it. Instead, he holds up a black moleskin book that fits comfortably in his hand, it’s small enough that Evan wonders how anyone can write in it. “There were two explosive charges placed directly on the power line, and our guys pulled a clean print from the one that didn’t go off. The Germans can’t match it. We’ve checked every database we have access to and still nothing, but we’re hooked into Langley, now. We might have caught our mole, sir.”

“We weren’t supposed to catch him like this,” Evan mutters. “They’re running the search now?” He gets a nod in answer, so he slides his chair back and stands up. “Show me.”

Espera brings him over to the appropriate computer, which like the office chair is distinctly dated. The large, boxy monitor takes up most of the desk. Evan can see the search program is already running: a blur of black and white whorls are flipping past faster than his eyes can track and he doesn’t let himself think about what happens if this program fails, if they can’t find any match for the print they’ve pulled. After everything they’ve lost, Evan hopes there’s at least one thing they can salvage. 

Not that it would make this worthwhile, or meaningful, or anything other than a colossal failure of a mission. He’s just lost two agents and Evan really wants to nail the sonofabitch responsible for their deaths.

They stand there for ten minutes, almost to the second. Evan counts them off in his head, ‘One Mississippi, two’, and then the computer pings happily and the images that have been flickering past suddenly freeze on two matching black and white whorls and lines, neatly framed, sitting side by side. Success.

Except that the computer isn’t offering up a name, it’s blinking angry red letters at them accusingly, and demanding clearance.

“What the hell is Treadstone?” Evan asks, frowning at the capitalized lettering that’s flashing on the monitor. 

“This is bullshit,” Espera hisses, focusing, of course, on the real problem at hand. “Does anybody here even _have_ level five security clearance?” 

No, no one does. Which means that Evan has no way of accessing the name of the person the print belongs to. The trail has, for the moment at least, hit a dead end.

“This is bullshit,” Espera repeats. “We’re tracking a mole here. We’re trying to do some good. What the hell do we need to jump through these hoops for?” he blinks at Evan. “They have to give us the clearance, right?”

Evan doesn’t say anything. No one at Langley _has_ to do anything. His hands fist at his sides, but he doesn’t say that out loud. Espera already knows. “All right,” Evan says, trying to sound upbeat. He reminds himself that this is at least something, which is a hell of a lot better than nothing, which they would have had if the program had failed to find a print match. This is a step in the right direction. “Book us a flight ASAP, we’re heading to Langley.”

“Yeah,” Espera says, then straightens up and nods sharply. “Yes.”

________________________

Brad tracks his way around town, past shops open and bustling with people, and down the main street before turning back toward his neighborhood. He has to slow his pace as he wends his way through the growing crowd. 

On the weekends, the neighborhood around the beach teems with people as vendors set up a street market that spills off the sidewalk and slows traffic to a crawl. Everyone is smiling and chattering, the rich smells of spice mixing with fresh bread and produce sitting low in the air.

Brad's slowed to a walk by the time he reaches the center of the market; the press of bodies around him prevents a faster pace. He stops at a stall tucked up on the sidewalk where colorful cloths in pinks and oranges provide shade for the woman who stands beneath. She is stooped, with wrinkles worn in deep grooves along her face and several teeth missing, though it doesn’t stop her from smiling broadly when she sees him. 

She’s filled a bag with bread so fresh it's still warm to the touch and is holding it out before Brad even reaches her stall. When he offers her payment and says ‘thank-you’ in broken Konkani, she laughs. “You’re welcome,” she says in perfect, though accented, English, her voice rough but warm. “Buy some cheese,” she tells him, pointing to a wooden stand across the way. “You run too much, a breeze will catch you and take you away.”

Glancing toward the cheese stand she has indicated, Brad’s eyes catch on a silver Honda attempting to make its way through traffic with limited success. As he watches, the car pulls to the side and, after a pause, a pale man with short-cropped hair steps out from the driver’s side, glasses dark and covering most of his face. His bearing is stiff, tense. Even at this distance Brad notices that the guy hasn’t straightened his legs entirely, they’re slightly bent, prepared to move at the slightest provocation. It’s clear that he’s had some kind of training, though Brad is confident the man is not military; he’s not nearly precise enough in his movements to suggest that. Maybe law enforcement. 

The man pulls something from the car that he tucks into his pocket, and then he shuts the door and crosses the street, disappearing into the post office. It’s not coincidence. Goa is one of the smallest cities in India, what are the odds there would be two targets hiding out there? The guy’s not on holiday, that much was perfectly self-evident.

Bread in hand, Brad walks casually through the crowd, bypassing the rest of the stalls in favor of working his way toward the Honda. From the street, he can see into the post office where the man is leaning over the counter, handing something over for the clerk to inspect. Probably a photograph to go along with the story he’s worked up: “Have you seen this man? He’s my brother, he’s my friend, he’s a distant relative. There’s been a death in the family, he’s inherited, he’s in trouble.” Pick one of two. That’s what Brad would do. Present yourself as concerned or helpful and any connections the target has made in the neighborhood trip over themselves to help. They think they’re aiding their friend, after all. No reason to suspect anything else.

He slows his pace to get a look inside the parked vehicle. There’s a long canvas bag sitting in the passenger seat; it could be mistaken as a bag for a yoga mat but Brad knows better: the sack hangs too loose, something in the shape not quite right. He keeps his head down and ducks onto a side street, his stride lengthening as he begins to work his way toward the hut.

They’ve been living in Goa for six months. He should have known better than to stay in one place for so long, but he had been swayed by the crumbling wooden shack on the beach, the vibrancy of the people and the vitality of the town. He’d gotten lazy.

Walt’s sitting at the kitchen table sipping at a mug of coffee as he types something one handed into his open laptop. “What’s going on?” he asks the moment he sees Brad.

“We have to move,” Brad says, striding to his bedroom. “Where’s Ray?”

Walt's out of his chair, following him into the room with his coffee in one hand. “He went into town. You know how he is with the market. Brad, are you sure?”

Brad trades his running shirt for a fresh T-shirt, pulling it down with one hand while the other reaches for the journal he keeps in the nightstand. “Call him,” Brad says. “Tell him we’re heading out, and to be at the pharmacy in five mikes.” 

Walt doesn’t hesitate, which Brad appreciates. Kicking off his shoes, he pitches his running shorts onto the bed and pulls on a pair of khaki pants. 

By the time he’s changed and striding out of the house, Walt is sitting in their dusty green Land Rover with the motor running. “Go,” Brad says as he climbs in, dragging his door closed. Walt shifts into reverse and pulls out onto the road.

Walt is entirely focused as he drives. He’s not speeding, but he’s cutting along the shortest route to the pharmacy at a fair clip. “How sure are you about this?” 

“There was a man in town,” Brad says, pulling his Beretta from the glove compartment. He ejects the cartridge and checks the clip, then reloads the gun. “His car was wrong, his clothes were wrong. Everything about him.” Walt glances over with an eyebrow raised, so Brad adds, “Also, he was driving with a sniper rifle in the front seat.”

Walt’s quiet for a moment. “So, you’re pretty sure.” Brad smiles darkly. Yeah, he’s sure. He knows as assassin when he sees one.

They make it to the corner pharmacy in less than five minutes and Ray’s already waiting for them. He shoves a bundle of plastic bags stuffed with food from the market and climbs in right after, closing the door and waiting until they are back on the road before he starts demanding answers. 

“One of Brad’s friends is visiting from out of town,” Walt explains. 

That's enough for Ray. “Shit,” he says. “I was really hoping that after two years they’d forgotten about us.”

Brad would be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping the same thing, but he also knows better. Rather than dwell on things he can’t change he keeps his eyes moving, checking the rearview as well as his side window. Ray, sitting behind Walt, is skimming the crowds even though no one has told him what he should be looking for.

“Silver Honda,” Brad says, when he spots the car turning onto the street three cars behind them. “Do you see it?”

Walt nods. “Got it.” 

“One hundred meters back,” Ray says, then adds, “Shit, what kind of assassin drives a fucking _Honda_?”

For the moment the crowds are doing them a favor. It’s another reason why Brad had liked Goa: so many people meant that any government agent couldn't do very much without drawing attention to themselves. Most government agents are allergic to attention.

Brad’s not interested in keeping their tail; he has no interest in tempting fate. He tells Walt to pick up speed. “Turn here.” 

Walt follows Brad’s directions and turns the Land Rover onto the main street out of town. There’s a fair amount of traffic but it’s moving at a consistent rate and Brad knows that the roads widen considerably once they cross the bridge, with a lot of small side lanes that loop back on themselves. It's ideal for losing a tail who is unfamiliar with the neighborhood. But first, they have to get to the bridge.

“Wow,” where’d he go?” Ray's craning around in his seat trying to check the back window.

“You’re not in a damned armored Humvee, Person,” Brad snaps. “Those windows aren’t bullet proof. Keep your head down.”

Ray rolls his eyes but shifts a bit lower in his seat. “Okay, but seriously, homes,” he says. “I can’t see that fucker anywhere.”

Brad glances into the rear-view mirror, and then checks the side mirror because he can’t spot the Honda either. Maybe it was a false alarm and Brad stirred them all up over nothing, but he doesn’t think so. He trusts his instincts, even if he doesn’t consciously remember most of the experiences that honed them.

If their positions were reversed, Brad knows that he would be looking for a solid vantage point from which to fire. From what Brad had seen of the other man he didn’t appear to be familiar with Goa, which means that Brad has the advantage when it comes to navigation.

Except that they’re driving on a busy four-lane road with no intersections and no turn-offs. Their destination is perfectly evident to anyone with a pair of eyes and there’s a fair stretch of road that skirts around the bottom of heavily treed hills, a perfect vantage point for a clean kill-shot.

Brad had thought of the opportunities that lay beyond the bridge but now he can’t help thinking that before they can get to all those little dirt roads crisscrossing up and down a fairly steep incline in heavy brush, they have to make it across a bridge where they’ll be lined up just about perfectly.

“Cut through the fields,” he says, pointing to the farmland on their right. “Here, turn here.” Walt cranks the wheel and they pitch off the road down a sharp incline, bouncing into a field of tall green plants that Brad doesn’t spare a thought to identify. “Keep driving.”

“I can’t see shit,” Walt complains. “What are we doing?”

“It’s a shortcut,” Ray offers. “Keep going straight and we’re going to spill right out by the bridge. Still no sign of Mr. Honda, by the way.”

Their only chance is to get across the bridge before the assassin can find a place to set up a clean shot. Brad estimates their odds are pretty much fifty-fifty but if Ray and Walt haven’t worked that out, then he doesn’t need to tell them. “Drive faster, Walt.”

“I know, I know.” Walt presses his foot down on the pedal.

The Land Rover’s nose tips upward sharply and then they’re bumping up the other side of the field. Walt joins the traffic like it’s not weird at all that he just popped out of some farmer’s crop, a few stalks of whatever the hell they just drove through lying across the hood of the car. Walt hits the windshield wipers and the foliage slips off their vehicle landing on a little beat-up red Volvo beside them.

“For the record,” Ray says. “I find these little jaunts you take us on through populated city streets very refreshing.” Beside them, the driver of the little red Volvo is shaking his fist and yelling. “You’re welcome!” Ray calls, smiling and waving at the guy. “We just saved him a trip to the grocery store.”

“Keep your fucking head down,” Brad mutters.

They’re moving at thirty-five KPH across the bridge. It’s too slow for Brad’s liking, too easy to size-up a shot, especially when the road is smooth and the car doesn’t jostle. It’s as fast as they can go however, because they’re moving with traffic. The bridge only has two lanes; if they cut into the other lane they’ll cause an accident, which will stall them out in the open.

Briefly, Brad considers this as a viable option. He calculates the likelihood of getting across the bridge on foot without the assassin tracking them, the chaos of the bridge operating as a diversion. It’s not worth it, he decides. Their Land Rover is one of three trucks on the bridge and they’re not bunched close together. To cause a big enough diversion to cover their movement they’d have to take out several cars and damage them enough to get some solid black smoke, or even a fire. Loss of life and permanent injury would be significant. Given the odds of the commotion having the effect he wants, Brad dismisses the idea. He sticks with their fifty-fifty odds.

“Walt,” he says. “We’re gonna switch places, okay?” Walt nods his head without glancing over and adjusts his grip on the wheel so he can keep control of the vehicle as he shifts to the right.

“Dude,” Ray mutters from the backseat. “He’s _driving_. This is a fucking _retarded_ idea, Colbert.”

Brad ignores him. Common sense dictates that if there is no clear shot of a target, the best course of action is to knockout the driver: the car stops, your target is forced to a stand still or out into the open. Brad doesn’t think there is any reason why an assassin would target all three of them. There’s really only one major target in the vehicle, and Brad doesn’t intend for any of the others to go down with him. Not if he can help it. 

“Ready?” he says, dropping his seat back so he can slide behind Walt. “Keep your foot on the gas.”

“Hey, I hope someone has control of the fucking steering wheel,” Ray says, shifting up when the car jerks to the left, control of the vehicle passing from Walt to Brad as they exchange places. 

There’s a moment when they’re perfectly aligned: Walt leaning forward and shifting to the right, Brad trying to get positioned behind the wheel, and Ray kneeling up because he doesn’t trust them to do this without causing a major collision, and also because he’s a pain in the ass backseat driver.

Then the moment passes. “Got it,” Brad says as Walt drags the leg he’d been keeping on the gas awkwardly over. 

There’s a snap and cracking sound. Walt frowns at Brad. “Was that…?” 

Brad already knows that yes, it was. “Is anyone hit?” he demands. “Walt, you hit?”

“I’m fine. Ray…?” Walt turns around in his seat and says, “Oh shit, Brad.”

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Brad can’t see Ray. He can’t _hear_ Ray either, which is more disturbing. There’s another crack, another bullet hitting their windshield but this time the glass just shatters, shards of it spilling over the dash and bouncing off Brad’s hands as they clutch the wheel, leaving biting little cuts behind. Walt is twisted around trying to check on Ray, and the sniper is going to keep shooting until he takes them out.

Brad makes a split second decision. 

“Hang on,” he says, and then cranks the wheel to the left, cutting the Rover straight across oncoming traffic, smashing through the low brick wall of the bridge and out into open space.

They're in free fall. Time seems to stand still. Brad finds he can hear only his breaths, in and out. The murky grey-green water stretches in front of him but he feels like he’s suspended. He can feel his heart thudding in his chest but he can’t hear it. Nothing but a dull roar and his steady breathing, and an echo of a memory quoting at him: _“Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power.”_

Brad braces his legs wide and his hands on the dash, he closes his eyes, and takes a breath. 

They crash into the water. A shock of cold, suffocating wetness enveloping him as they break beneath the surface of the river, bubbles surging up all around them, and they begin to sink. 

When Brad opens his eyes they sting faintly, an ache that makes him want to close them again. He pushes the sensation aside. Beside him, Walt is already tugging Ray up from the backseat toward the shattered front window. Brad can see the slow cloud of red that Ray leaves in his wake. Ray’s eyes are open as Brad fists a hand in the front of his shirt and swims out of the slowly sinking car, fighting the tug of the car’s current that momentarily drags him closer to the river’s bottom. 

Brad doesn’t need to peer up at the surface to know that by now a crowd will have gathered on the bridge. They just cut across traffic and broke through the low guardrail on the side of the bridge, they definitely got some attention. Their would-be assassin is likely waiting to confirm his kill. Brad doesn’t know how determined the man might be about it but he thinks that most likely, so long as he doesn’t see them surface, he will count it as a completed assignment.

Brad tugs Ray back when he tries to break the surface, signalling with his free hand that he is heading beneath the bridge. He doesn’t have to say that they cannot surface until they are hidden because Ray and Walt are retired Recon Marines and some things just go without saying. 

The bridge isn’t that far from their position, but they are moving against the current of the river and also, they had to swim up from their vehicle. By the time Brad surfaces his lungs are starting to burn. He takes two deep gulps of air and then whispers, “Come on,” diving back beneath the water, hand still fisted in Ray’s shirt. 

They swim to shore on the opposite side of the bank. Ray flopping awkwardly onto the rocks but at least he seems to understand the need to keep moving. Walt hooks an arm around his shoulder, Brad taking the other side, and they stagger away from the river, disappearing into the dense brush after only a moment’s exposure.

“How bad is it?” Brad asks when they’re far enough in. 

“I’m fucking shot,” Ray says unhelpfully, collapsing to ground. His right hand is pressing at a spot just below his left collarbone. “How bad do you _think_ it is?”

“He’s bleeding a lot.” Walt swiftly rips the sleeve off of Ray's shirt and fashions a damp tourniquet in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Given the awkward position of the wound the binding won’t accomplish much, but at least Ray's keeping steady pressure on it.

Brad checks Ray’s back and confirms that in fact the bullet went clear through his friend. “That fucking moron,” Ray grumbles. “He couldn’t even fucking shoot properly.”

“Seems to have managed just fine,” Walt mutters. 

“If the idiot could fucking _aim_ , then Brad would be the one with the seeping wound,” Ray points out. “Treadstone must be hard-up if they’re sending fucking retards after you, Brad. We don’t even _look_ the same.”

“For that, I thank the Lord for every damned day,” Brad quips. 

While Ray’s distracted prodding at his own shoulder, Brad meets Walt’s gaze. They both already know how this is going to have to play out. “You should head out,” he says, pulling a soggy fold of bills from his pocket and handing it over to Walt. “If you go now there shouldn’t be any trouble. Take a taxi, there’ll be fewer questions.”

Walt sighs. “I know.”

“Wait, what?” Ray squawks. “What are you talking about? What taxi?”

“Shut up, Ray.” Walt gets a grip on Ray’s arm and shifts to pull the both of them to their feet. “And take some of your own goddamned weight. I’m not carrying you all the way to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” Ray asks, like he hasn’t already figured out his injury requires professional attention. “Wait, no, we can’t leave…” Brad hears Ray bitching as he and Walt disappear through the trees. When he’s certain they’ve made it to the road, Brad turns on his heel and heads in the opposite direction, along the banks of the river.

________________________

The office is stifling when Nate pushes open the door. The lights are off, which is not unusual, but the windows and blinds are closed, and not a single fan is running. There are advantages Nate supposes, to being the last one to leave the office at the end of the day. At least he knows to keep a few fans on when he locks the front door and heads home.

With a sigh, he drops his keys onto his desk, setting down his travel mug as well as the morning paper before marching toward the windows with his briefcase still slung over his shoulder.

The beige blinds rest at a slant, no matter how careful he is to pull the cord evenly. The windows are always reluctant to open but he manages. Switching on the two fans he keeps in his half of the office, Nate finally drops his leather briefcase onto his chair on his way to fill up the coffee pot.

By the time the front door opens again at nine o’clock the room is cool enough to be bearable and there is a full pot of fresh-brewed coffee; the rich, earthy scent of the European roast complements the stale, papery musk of the Madrid outpost. The smell always makes Nate feel nostalgic. Reminds him of late nights when the only thing he had to worry about was finishing a paper, or finding the right resource to support his thesis.

“Good morning, Nathaniel,” Todd Eckloff says as he comes through the door. Nate’s attention is fully focused on the newspaper covering half of his desk, but he manages a distracted greeting. “Is that today’s paper?”

“Yes,” Nate says, still reading the London paper. “The Guardian.”

“Ah,” Eckloff says as he makes his way to the coffee pot, filling his maroon mug almost to the brim before taking a sip. 

Three drops spill down onto the floor. Nate doesn’t need to look to know that they have fallen; this part, as much as everything else, is routine. There is a patch on the wood floor where the varnish has peeled back, the floor stained a slightly darker color because every morning Todd Eckloff comes into the office, stands in the exact same place and fills his mug and takes a sip, spilling three drops in more or less the same spot every time. As far as Nate can tell, Eckloff never notices. 

When the man moves toward his office door Nate glances away from the paper, notes the telltale and entirely expected sheen to the dark patch of the floor. “Christ,” Eckloff curses as he steps into his office. “It’s a wall of heat in here.”

“I'm sorry about that. I opened the windows in here as soon as I got in, but I didn’t want to overstep.”

“No, that’s fine.” The man’s voice drifts through the opened door to his office. “That’ll teach me to shut everything down before I leave.” 

Usually, Eckloff keeps to a strict schedule. He arrives precisely at nine in the morning, and he’s out again at five. The only time he stays late is if there is a phone call from New York, which happens only rarely. Those nights Nate is always the first to leave, shutting down his computer and closing up his half of the office, turning out the lights. 

Those nights, Nate knows, there is some sort of crisis that requires managing. Eckloff still arrives by nine the next morning but he’s terse, dark circles beneath his eyes and wrinkles between his brows like he’s perpetually thinking of something unpleasant. On those mornings, Nate knows to put on an extra pot of coffee.

In Paris, they had air conditioning and windows that were properly sealed. Even if they hadn’t, Nate would never have made the following offer to Craig Schwetje. “You’re welcome to a corner of my desk in the interim.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Eckloff says. Nate listens to the sound of the man opening windows and turning on the extra fans while he clears a space off his desk. When Eckloff returns he’s carrying his laptop and his cup of coffee. The laptop he sets down carefully at the corner of Nate’s desk. The mug he takes back to the coffee maker to refill.

It’s quiet for a while. Nate boots up his computer and gets to work with a project Langley sent over for him to look at. Eckloff sits on a chair, sipping his coffee and scrolling through something on his computer. But then he puts down his mug and fixes Nate with steady dark eyes. “I read the notes you made on that Brazil op.”

“Hm?” Nate enters a few corrections into what he’s looking over before turning his attention away from the screen.

“It’s not bad,” Eckloff continues. “Actually, I was impressed.”

The corner of Nate’s mouth quirks up and he nods. “Thank you.”

“I know we’ve covered this before,” the other man says, and Nate already knows where this conversation is heading. He thinks: ‘must be Tuesday’. 

“I know why this outpost seemed ideal,” Eckloff continues. “We don’t, after all, have any assets currently operating in this city. But I can’t help thinking that someone with your logistical capabilities would be happier out in the field. Or even coordinating operations. You don’t get that here. Not often enough, at least.”

“I appreciate the concern,” Nate says. “I do. But I assure you, I am happy where I am.”

Eckloff looks T him for a moment, his expression neutral. Nate knows when he is being assessed and he keeps still and returns the gaze with equanimity. Finally, Eckloff nods. “If that ever changes, you let me know. Langley would be happy to have you back in the field.”

“I will, sir. Thank-you.”

________________________

Walt’s laptop is sitting on the kitchen table when Brad enters the cabin. It’s gone into sleep mode, waiting patiently beside the mug that Walt abandoned on the way out the door. Brad’s not a sentimental person, he doesn’t think he ever was, but Walt and Ray have been persistent figures in his life for over two years. In many ways, they are the only two people he knows.

Everything about their lives since leaving France is disposable. They don’t keep cherished possessions and most of the things on-hand in the cabin are easily replaceable. Brad finds Ray’s back-up passport tucked in a torn seam on the underside of the couch. Walt’s is taped to the back of a framed Monet print that had been there when they first rented the place. He does a quick search to make certain neither man was keeping any other personal items around, and then takes both passports and a few photographs that he finds stuffed in Ray’s sock drawer out to the beach and starts a fire. When it’s burning hot enough he pitches the documents into it.

The laptop he destroys. Mostly it’s precaution because Brad knows that Walt is especially cautious, and also knowledgeable enough to ensure nothing incriminating could be found on it. There’s always a chance though, and it’s not like it’s the only laptop in the world.

There isn’t much in the cabin that belongs to him but Brad packs up what little there is. He ends up with a single bag small enough to be permitted as carry-on by any airline. HE does not intend to travel by plane.

BRAD calls a cab, sets his bag on the front porch and waits. Behind him, he can hear the hiss-crash of the waves as they rush the shore. He thinks about how they came to this hut. How Ray had insisted that this time he was going to be the one to find them a place. Brad and Walt had both been hesitant, but in the face of Ray’s determination they had acceded. 

Brad hated the hut from the moment he’d seen it. “But look, Brad,” Ray had said. “We’re right by the water.”

“I can’t help but look, Ray, there are no fucking doors in this place.”

“Don’t be hatin’.” Ray had push-pulled the green front door, back and forth so it creaked and whined. “Look! Do my eyes deceive me, or is this a motherfucking _door_!”

Already, Brad is starting to miss Goa.

Two years ago he had told Joe Dowdy in no uncertain terms that he no longer had any interest in being a part of Treadstone; he didn’t work for them anymore and he didn’t want to hear from them again. Brad hadn’t ever believed it could be that simple, but two years was just long enough to start thinking maybe it had been.

Apparently not. For whatever reason, someone was once again trying to kill him, and Brad intended to find out why. The last time he had been forced to fight for his life he hadn’t known much of anything. He hadn’t even known his own name. As natural as subterfuge and violence had felt to him, one of the only familiar things, every time he survived an encounter with someone hell-bent on killing him had felt a bit like a surprise.

This time, Brad feels entirely confident that he knows precisely what he’s doing.

________________________

Most people Evan knows, dislike their bosses. Sometimes it’s on general principle, but mostly it’s because they happen to be assholes. In Evan’s line of work he doesn’t get to meet a lot of people he genuinely likes, but Reyes is one of them. The fact that the man is also Evan’s boss is something he counts as a genuine bonus.

“This is not good, Evan,” Rudy Reyes says. Despite the truth in the man’s words there is no trace of censure or anger of any kind. Reyes is merely stating a fact. One with which Evan wholeheartedly agrees.

Still, “We have a lead,” he says.

Reyes sighs and leans back in his chair. “This mission was a tragic disaster. We’ve lost two agents, three million dollars in cash, and all of it was very public. We don’t even have the Neski files, which means we’re not any closer to locating our mole.”

“We don’t have the files,” Evan agrees. “But we do have a lead.”

Reyes nods thoughtfully. “A thumbprint. Where did that take you?”

Shifting in his seat, Evan clears his throat and considers that for all his seemingly infinite patience, Reyes really does not tolerate bullshit. “What can you tell me about Treadstone?”

He gets a heavy, sighing exhale in answer. Evan thinks the man might actually be meditating right in front of him. “You’re asking me for level five SCI access?”

“I think we still have a chance to find the mole.”

There’s a long stretch of a moment where the office is entirely silent. Evan wishes his boss would change his expression more often, give some indication of where his head is so Evan doesn’t have to hold his breath and try to keep from squirming with impatience. Finally, Reyes says, “Alright. I’ll grant you the clearance, but if this does turn out to relate to Treadstone, then it’s bigger than this department. You’ll be on a short leash, and I want a detailed report for the group. People are going to demand to know where you’re going with this.”

The warning is supposed to cool him off, to remind him that this is a delicate situation that needs to be handled appropriately but also very carefully. Hearing his usually relaxed department head speak so seriously however, only serves to pique Evan’s curiosity further.

Striding out of Reyes’ office, he doesn’t even wait for Espera to fall into step beside him. “We’re a go. Let’s run this print again and see who it belongs to.”

The answer leads Evan down to the far corner of file storage in the very bowels of the building. He passes two different security check points before he’s allowed to even stand at the desk, and that’s just on the one floor. He had to pass two more to get onto the elevator that would grant him access to that side of the basement filing room.

When he gets there Evan hands a form, signed by Reyes, to the desk clerk who eyes it closely. It feels like he’s asking permission to leave early from his elementary school principal. He can’t help but notice that there are two men working at the desk and both of them are equipped with a radio and at least one Glock each. Evan never discounts the possibility of a gun strapped to an ankle holster. He carries one like that himself, after all.

Just how many people want to break into a room filled with cardboard boxes and paperwork that it requires so much security? These are the files that everyone working in the CIA would sooner just forget, how many people actually come down here? 

Then again, the CIA doesn’t pay people to be trusting.

The desk clerk returns carrying a single, file sized cardboard box. There is a white printed label stuck on one side: “T-V 2005 | 81362-81369”. “This way,” the agent says, and leads Evan to a cramped grey room with a metal table and chair. It looks a bit like a prison cell except there is no cot, and no toilet. 

“Take as long as you need. Mr. Reyes authorized removal of any files you might require but you'll still have to fill out the proper paperwork. I’ll be at the desk. Sir.” The clerk sets the box on the table, nods his head before he closes the heavy metal door. It’s almost surprising that the door doesn’t lock automatically.

Evan drapes his suit jacket on the back of the chair before dropping into it. He flips the lid off the box with a flourish that causes him to sneeze. He should have anticipated a bit of dust, really.

The first file Evan pulls out from the box is the project debriefing report. It’s spiral bound with an official printed seal on the front and says “TREADSTONE” in large Courier font. Below that is a string of numbers that he assumes is the project ID code, and a date: March 26, 2005. The day the operation was officially terminated. The report is mostly bureaucratic jargon, an entire operation boiled down to a simple loss-gain formula that refers to money more than any other aspect of the project. The cost-effect margin was declared to be minimal, and the entire project was scrapped just like that.

Evan pulls file after file. Discovers that Steven Lovell, a quiet unassuming face around the office, was actually a Treadstone agent before he was reassigned. Apparently his work was mostly restricted to office assignments. None of the personnel files are what Evan is looking for however and he flips through them until, finally, he withdraws the right one: Bradley Colbert. 

According to the Langley database it’s Colbert’s fingerprint that was pulled off the unexploded charge in Berlin. Colbert is responsible for the deaths of Evan’s agents and the general mess that was Evan’s last mission.

When he flips the folder open the first thing he notes is the thick black stripes blocking out most of the text. Even level 5 SCI clearance is apparently not high enough to dig up Treadstone’s buried skeletons. Most of the man’s history is classified but Evan doesn’t really need that. He just needs to figure out what he’s dealing with and how to find the man. 

There is a black and white image of Bradley Colbert paper-clipped to the inside of the file. His eyes are pale. He stares suspiciously out of the photograph, cold and detached and curiously haunted, as if he’s only half aware of his surroundings. The final notes in Colbert’s file say only: Aborted mission. Deserted. Possible Diagnosis - amnesia.

Beneath that is a list of aliases for Colbert’s last known contact printed in a tight regimented clump to the right of a name: Fick, Nathaniel.

The name is familiar and Evan sorts through the folders he has pitched aside until he finds the one with Fick’s name. In his picture Nathaniel Fick gazes straight at the camera, his gaze measuring, his mouth closed, expression flat. He looks young, far too young, as if he hasn’t even hit puberty. 

Like Colbert, most of Fick’s file is blacked out. Apparently, he was a lieutenant in the USMC First Reconnaissance Battalion before he was recruited to the CIA. Evan learns that the man was trained as a Treadstone Bravo and then sent out into the field in the spring of 2001. He was stationed in Paris alongside Alpha agent Craig Schwetje, and was a part of Treadstone for four years until the project was terminated, at which time he was reassigned.

Evan tries to find something that explains the distinction between an Alpha and a Bravo agent but there’s nothing. As far as he can tell, Schwetje was a desk agent; there are far fewer black lines in his file than in Fick’s or Colbert’s, but his signature appears on a number of documents. When Evan returns to Fick’s file he notes three pages that are nothing but dates beside a black line. 

Field missions.

He sets those pages on the desk alongside a similar, though much larger, set of pages from Colbert’s file and discovers a fair number of the dates correspond between the two men. On the fourth page of Fick’s file, after the photograph, a full set of his fingerprints, and the form outlining his personal information and history prior to Treadstone (most of which is blacked out), Evan finds a reference to Fick’s first field operation. 

He has to check to confirm the date, but Fick’s first Treadstone operation occurs before he is made a full Bravo agent. A final test to confirm field readiness; it’s a technique that the CIA favors. Evan himself endured something similar in his own nascent days at the agency. He’s fairly certain, however, that the files for his first mission are not as highly classified as Fick’s apparently are. Any specific details about the assignment are blacked out and the mission report is not included in the file. 

What is visible is concise and clinical: “April 3, 2001 agent Fick arrived 0545 hrs Paris, France.” There is a stretch of black that spans half a line followed by, “April 4, 2001 2100 hrs Casablanca, Morocco, contact established (email).” There are three lines of black that end with a final comment: “April 11, 2001 contact established, asset confirmed. Mission: success. Agent Fick designated Treadstone operative, full Bravo status, assignment: Paris, France.”

There is one note buried amidst the regiment of black lines that references Joe Dowdy as Treadstone’s program director. When Evan consults Dowdy’s file he finds the red stamp with the all-too familiar block letters and box stating: ‘killed in action’ framing the hand-written note: ‘433-D/III’ referencing the file containing the pertinent information. That file is not in the box that Evan has. Evan’s clearance is still inadequate to grant access to any of Treadstone’s operation files. What he does find however is enough to start formulating a working theory. 

The more Evan sorts through the documents, the less it feels like just a theory.

He finds the last piece he needs on the first document he opened, the project debriefing report stating that Treadstone was a test-case for a training program that turned out to be too costly to be practical. The Deputy Director responsible for overseeing that project was James Mattis. Mattis states that the operation was mostly shut down at the time of the committee meeting, and recommended it should be officially terminated. 

It’s neat and efficient. All the loose ends wrapped, the whole operation carefully boxed up and forgotten about like all the other ideas that never quite took off.

Evan flips the last file closed, replaces it into the box and stands up. He finds his way back to the file desk, box propped on his hip and held in place with one hand as the other dials Espera on his cellphone. 

“Yeah,” he says when the man answers the phone. “I need you to confirm that James Mattis is in his office.” Evan turns to the file clerk and says, “I’m going to need to take out some of these files.”


	3. Chapter Two

Evan flips open his phone as he marches through the hall toward James Mattis’ office. It’s maybe a little satisfying that the mention of his name alone has Mattis’ secretary patching him through without much fuss. “Sir,” he says, when the man offers a grunted greeting into the phone. “I’m putting some information together following a lead from an op I’ve been running. I was hoping you had time for a meeting.”

 _“I heard about Berlin. That’s always hard.”_ Mattis' tone sounds just shy of blasé. _“I’ll check my schedule, we'll see if I have some time this afternoon.”_

Evan knows a brush-off when he hears one but he was prepared for this; James Mattis has a reputation as a hard-ass, demanding as well as direct and yet as slippery as a well-oiled eel. Evan feels a certain amount of satisfaction as he pushes through the doors of Mattis’ department. “I was thinking about right now.”

Mattis looks up through the clear glass of his office and meets Evan’s eye. _“Twenty minutes,”_ he says in a clipped voice, and then hangs up. 

Evan has won the first round, but that doesn’t mean Mattis has to be gracious about it. He ends up waiting the entire twenty minutes sitting just outside Mattis’ office while the man sits inside and tries to look busy. As far as power plays go it doesn’t get either of them anywhere. By the time the man opens his office door and smiles a thin, grimacing smile, Evan suspects that all it has accomplished is making them both equally irritated.

“What can I do for you?” Mattis asks as he resettles into his leather chair, his hands folded neatly on the surface of his desk.

Evan cuts right to the chase. “What can you tell me about Treadstone?”

Mattis doesn’t hesitate. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“I have been granted a warrant for all personnel materials relating to Treadstone.” Evan opens the folder he brought with him and sets the warrants down on the desk. Then he waits.

Mattis’ expression is completely even, but his lips pinch at the corners just slightly as he glances down, eying the papers. “It was a kill squad. Black on black,” he says, after a moment. “Whatever it is you’re fishing for, it’s best if you give it up, son. _Nobody_ wants to hear about Treadstone.”

“I do.” Evan attempts to look commanding. This is somewhat difficult to do given his stature, and the fact that he is sitting down in a chair of significantly lesser quality than Mattis' own desk chair. Reyes granted him the access, Evan reminds himself. It’s his own op he’s pursuing this lead for, so he is unequivocally in charge. Sitting opposite James Mattis, somehow it doesn’t quite feel that way. 

“I’ve pulled the files, but I’d like to hear from someone directly related to the project.” He doesn’t realize his words can be construed as a threat until he says them aloud, and by then it’s too late. Related to the project, responsible for it, it’s all the same. Most times agents in the CIA speak sideways at each other so often they forget the meaning of the word ‘direct’. Mattis’ eyes narrow but Evan pushes onward. “What happened?”

“What happened?” Mattis echoes. “Bradley Colbert happened. You read the files. Joe Dowdy had his agents wound so tight one of them was bound to snap and finally, one of them did. Colbert was Treadstone’s primary asset. The best of an elite, highly trained group. He was sent out on an op, fucked the mission and never came back. Dowdy couldn’t fix it, and he couldn’t find Colbert.” 

His eyes narrow as he leans forward. “Let’s cut the crap here, Evan. What are you after?”

“Everything went sideways and to clean it up, you had Joe Dowdy killed,” Evan says, keeping his gaze steady and his voice level. “If we’re really cutting the crap.” He doesn’t get a response but the other man’s expression is confirmation enough. 

There’s another tense stretch of silence, which Mattis cuts off abruptly. “You think that since you’ve read a few files you know something about this project?" He sneers. "I can assure you that you do not. Are you trying to burn me? Is that it? I’ve given over thirty years and two marriages to this agency. I’ve shoveled shit on five continents. You think I’m going to sit here and let you hold this over my head?” 

Mattis’ blue eyes are opened wide, making him look manic. “Let me tell you something about Treadstone,” he continues. “When Colbert went rogue it was a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and everyone is just happy the situation was resolved without the whole agency being brought under fire.” He sits back in his chair. “ _No one_ is going to support you on this. What was done had to be done.”

Evan doesn’t need to point out that someone already has supported him, or else he wouldn’t be sitting here talking. He wouldn’t know a single damned thing about Treadstone. It’s an inch, but Evan intends to take that inch and run miles with it. “And Colbert?” 

“What about him?”

Evan retrieves his documents from the desk and returns them to his folder. “How about what happened to him?”

“Dead in a ditch. Slumped over a bar in Tijuana,” Mattis says, like either way it doesn’t matter. “Who knows?”

“I think I do,” Evan says. “We pulled his fingerprint off an undetonated explosive attached to a power line in Berlin.” He forces himself to be calm and detached, mostly he tries not to think about the project he’s talking about. “We had a deal going down and during the op both our case officers were killed, and the information was stolen.”

“You think Colbert is responsible?”

Evan raises his eyebrows. “The man is a cold blooded assassin trained in one of the toughest programs the CIA has ever undertaken. You said yourself that Dowdy regarded Colbert as his number one asset. Are you suggesting he isn’t capable of this?”

Mattis’ jaw flexes. “Your evidence for his involvement is a _fingerprint_ that you retrieved off of an _unexploded_ explosive device?” The smirk he flashes is packed full of amusement and condescension, and it makes Evan want to throw something at the man’s head. “Have you even read the files?”

There’s a knock on the door. Espera pokes his head in, glances over to where Mattis is sitting, rather imperiously in Evan’s opinion, behind the desk. “Sorry to interrupt. They’re ready for us upstairs.”

“Perfect,” Mattis says, a sharp little grin flashing over his face. “Let’s go.”

“Sir?” Espera asks, his gaze shifting from Mattis back to Evan.

“Treadstone was my Op. I am,” Mattis pauses, as if he’s trying to recall. “I believe your words were ‘directly related' to the project. I think they’re going to want me in that meeting.”

Evan hates that the man has a point.

________________________

Brad doesn’t have a destination in mind, but that’s intentional. He is acutely aware that he is working at a disadvantage. He has theories about what happened back in Goa, but he can’t and won’t operate on assumptions, he relies on facts. The only fact he knows for certain is that someone is trying to kill him. 

The most likely explanation is that Joe Dowdy has changed his mind and is looking to tie up loose ends. Yet Brad is also aware that he spent a number of years working as an assassin for the CIA. It’s likely he has more than one enemy.

The CIA obviously already knew Brad was living in Goa, otherwise they would not have known where to direct their assassin, but Brad wants to buy Ray and Walt some time to get as far away from this mess as possible. It is also possible that Brad is actually incapable of traveling in a simple and direct route. Ray has certainly accused him of this often enough. 

With no fixed destination in mind, and an adaptable outlook when it comes to mode of transportation, Brad jackrabbits his way out of India, across Iran and through Jordan, utilizing just about every mode of transportation he can think of short of riding a bicycle, until he ends up in Morocco.

In Tangiers, Brad ditches the motorcycle he’d stolen, walks three blocks south and then hails a cab. The taxi is a white Toyota Carina that reeks of musky cologne and tobacco. The driver is extremely talkative and quite pleased to drop Brad by the pier. He’s even more pleased when Brad pays with American money.

The main pier is well maintained and unassuming; smooth poured grey concrete and white painted wood structures sit right by the water. The sun is bright enough that Brad leaves his sunglasses on as he walks up to the little desk and pays cash for a ticket on the first ferry leaving the port.

He doesn’t say that, of course. Instead, he quirks the corner of his mouth up in what he knows is a charming smile. “One for the ferry to Naples, please.”

The woman sitting at the counter glances up at him and her entire demeanor brightens. “The one that leaves in ten minutes? Or the one that heads out at six?” She speaks smooth and perfect French and he catches a flirtatious glint in her eye. When he takes the earlier ferry she doesn’t seem too disappointed and even flashes him a wink to match her cheeky smile as she hands him his ticket. “Have a safe trip. Come back any time, Mister Colbert.”

________________________

Briefings are an unfortunate fact of life for Evan: the frustrating red tape that must be crossed before and after, and all too often, during, an op. While he enjoys the fact that he’s the one sitting at the head of the table and leading the brief, it’s little consolation. The fact remains: if he can’t convince the people in this room that this operation is worth pursuing, then everything he’s been working on can close up and be taken from him.

“Gentlemen,” Reyes says, calling order to the table. “I’d like to get started.” When silence settles in the room, he gives Evan the go-ahead.

“Seven years ago, twenty million dollars of CIA funds disappeared during a wire transfer through Moscow,” Evan says, starting at the beginning because there are a number of people about to pass judgment that have not actually been made aware of what he’s been working on, and the inciting incident that prompted his latest operation.

“In the investigation that followed we were contacted by a Russian politician name Vladimir Neski, who claimed we had a leak and that our thief was one of our own people.”

“Who was it?” a woman sitting on Evan’s right asks.

“We never found out. Neski was killed while we were setting up a meet.”

The woman frowns. “Who killed him?”

“His wife,” Reyes says.

Evan waits to make sure he has everyone’s attention before he continues. “The case had gone cold, but a month ago we found another source: another Russian in Berlin who claimed that he had access to the Neski murder files. We thought we had another chance at this.” He gestures to the screen behind him as Espera punches up the footage from the op. 

A second later, the images pop up on the screen, the bodies of Evan’s agents lying sprawled on thin grey office carpeting, a bullet wound in the center of each of their heads. Evan does not glance at the monitors. “The assassin was one of our own, Bradley Colbert.” 

Every single person in the room shifts uncomfortably in their seats. Treadstone, apparently, is the boogeyman of the CIA. “I know Treadstone’s not a popular topic around here, but we found some interesting leads when we looked into it a little deeper.”

“This is Joe Dowdy’s personal computer.” Evan flips up the laptop in front of him and turns it to face the rest of the people at the table. “His Treadstone files are brimming with case files that he neither needed nor had clearance for. What’s more--” Espera pulls up the appropriate image on the monitors as Evan continues, “Buried on the hard drive, we uncovered a deleted file with an account number to a bank in Zurich. At the time of his death, Joe Dowdy had a personal account of seven hundred sixty thousand dollars.”

“Do you have any idea what his budget was?” Mattis interrupts. He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm braced on the table where he’s flipping a pen between his fingers. “We were throwing money at him and asking him to keep it all quiet. That was the entire point of the Treadstone operation.”

“This was his _own_ account,” Evan counters. “He was up to something.”

Mattis jerks his eyebrows up. “And you think this is definitive proof?”

“What’s _definitive_ is that I just lost two people in Berlin.”

“So what’s your theory?” Mattis pushes. “Joe Dowdy is reaching out from beyond the grave to protect his good name? I mean, Jesus Christ, the man is dead.”

“No one is disputing that, James,” Reyes speaks up, his quiet voice cutting off the rant Evan can hear building in the other man’s tone. 

“Well, what is going on here?” Mattis demands. “You knew the man, Rudy. Is this making sense to you? I mean, _at all_?”

Evan is looking for some sort of backing, but when Reyes turns to him he says, “The man has a point. This is a big leap. Where are you going with this, Evan?”

Evan leans forward so he has a clear line of sight to where James Mattis is sitting. “I think that Dowdy and Colbert were in business together, that Colbert’s still involved, and that the information I was buying in Berlin was incriminating enough to bring him out of hiding to kill again.”

“Excuse me, sir!” Stephen Lovell says as he rushes into the room, pausing by Reyes’ chair. “You’re not going to believe this, but Bradley Colbert’s passport just popped up on the grid in Naples.”

There’s a moment of stunned stillness and then Evan gets a tight nod from Reyes. It’s all the permission that he needs. “Okay.” Evan begins hastily closing up his files in preparation to leave. “Contact Naples and let them know who they’re dealing with. Find out what kind of local assets we have in place there.”

Lovell moves off to carry out the directives and Evan pushes back his chair. “I’m heading to Berlin.”

“Berlin?” Mattis asks, like he suspects Evan has lost his mind.

“I have a team already in place there. Colbert didn’t drop into Naples ready to settle down.”

“You don’t have a single goddamned idea about what you’re getting into here!”

“Do you?” Evan asks. As far as he knows, Mattis’ involvement with Treadstone was superficial at best, restricted mostly to paper. “From the minute he left Treadstone, Bradley Colbert has killed or eluded every asset that we’ve sent out to find him.”

“You read a couple of files on Colbert and suddenly you think you’re a damned expert? That’s how it goes?”

“Enough!” Reyes interrupts. “The _both_ of you are getting on that plane! We are, every one of us, going to do what we were seemingly incapable of doing before. We’re going to find this rogue asset and we’re going to bring him down. I will not allow Bradley Colbert to destroy any more of this agency. Do you both understand me?”

“Yes,” Evan says, his voice echoed by Mattis’.

________________________

Brad is detained in a white paneled interrogation room with a two-way mirror and a narrow window. He's seated in an uncomfortable plastic chair that is too short for him. It makes his knees bump the underside of the table and he feels like he’s sitting at a child’s desk. There's a plastic potted plant in one corner, and a stiff uniformed agente di polizia standing in the other; both are equally still.

Brad has a very clear and definite purpose for allowing himself to be detained, and he can be infinitely patient. He sits with his hands on the table and his head slightly bowed. Sooner or later someone will come in and try and interrogate him. Sooner or later Brad will get some actual answers. 

It doesn’t take quite as long as he thought it would, which is refreshing.

A man walks in, his chest puffed up and his stride purposeful. He has mid-toned skin and dark, close-cropped hair. There’s a well-groomed though too-small boxcar moustache above his lip and his eyes are dark and focused. If Brad were to stand up he’d estimate the man might possibly reach chest-height.

“Mister Colbert,” the man says as he rocks back a bit on his heels, a haughty quirk in the line of his mouth. His voice is smooth as an oil-slick. He pulls out a chair and sits down, then proceeds to flip open a black leather cardholder to reveal a badge that supports the next statement he makes, “I’m Ray Griego, with the U.S. Consulate. I have a few questions for you.”

Brad has no intention of answering questions; that’s not what he’s here for. He stays silent and keeps his gaze focused somewhere in the center of the table. Griego flips through Brad’s passport, scrutinizes the photograph like he might discover that Brad’s an imposter, then checks the stamps smattering the pages of the small booklet, mouthing the locations to himself and periodically glancing at Brad.

“You’re coming out of Tangiers, is that correct?” Brad doesn’t answer. Griego looks back down at the passport as if it might reveal something further. “What’s the nature of your visit to Naples?” Griego licks his lips and leans back in his chair, his hands resting on the lapels of his suit jacket. Brad wonders why the man doesn’t wear suspenders if that’s his relaxed posture.

The standoff holds for a stretch and then, smirking, Griego stands up. “Has he spoken at all?” he asks the guard in Italian, like Brad doesn’t understand perfectly what’s being said. The guard shakes his head 'no', which earns Brad another suspicious glance, which he ignores. 

Griego perches on the corner of the table, his leg extending into Brad’s personal space. It’s an obvious tactic meant to prompt some form of reaction: a knee-jerk shifting away, a furious glance up. Brad does none of these things. After a moment Griego snaps his fingers twice in front of Brad’s face. Just to make a point, Brad refuses blink.

“Look,” Griego exhales in a whoosh. “I don’t know what you did or who you’re working for, but I can _promise_ you that you are going to play ball one way or another. I can make this _very_ difficult for you. That’s within my power.”

It’s laughable, but Brad holds his tongue. There is nothing that this little man can do that would come anywhere close to forcing Brad to talk. 

Griego’s cell phone rings. Brad’s eyes shift to the man’s jacket pocket, and he watches as Griego rises from the table and turns his back, like that will give him privacy. “This is Griego,” he says into the phone, and then glances back over his shoulder at Brad. “Yes, I do.”

It’s perfectly evident in the way Griego’s posture suddenly stiffens, his hand ghosting to the pocket where Brad can see the outline of a gun, that this is the call Brad’s been waiting for. It certainly took Langley long enough.

“I understand.” All trace of arrogance has drained from Griego's voice. Brad looks up and meets the man’s eyes as Griego glances over briefly before turning away again. He's trying to appear casual. He's very bad at it. When the man turns back around with his gun in his hand he’s too slow, Brad’s already risen from his chair.

He punches out hard, striking up below Griego’s chin, forcing the man’s head back and winding him. As the man flails and loses the grip on his gun Brad brings his arm back to knock out the guard standing behind him and then, before the guard has hit the ground unconscious, Brad brings his other arm forward to strike Griego again, knocking him out cold. It’s over in a matter of seconds.

It feels good to move like that again, a heady zing of adrenaline coursing through him.

Pulling Griego’s cellphone from his pocket Brad retrieves his bag from the corner and pulls out his own phone. It’s a simple matter to copy Griego’s SIM card, and when he’s finished he drops the cellphone by Griego’s outstretched hand. Then he fishes the man’s keys from his pocket. 

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Brad walks out of the interrogation room and casually barricaded the door with a filing cabinet. Most people are working in their offices and pay him little mind as he strides out of the building. When he reaches the parking lot he uses the key fob on Griego’s keychain to find and unlock the car, following the flashing lights and the quiet chirrup through the grid of parked vehicles until he locates a grey BMW Series 7 and swaps the Italian plates for German, which he pulls from his bag. He settles behind the wheel of the car with no small amount of self-satisfaction. 

He’s about to start pulling out of the parking lot when his cellphone rings, causing him to pause. The timing is right, it has to be Langley calling to check on Griego's progress. Brad shifts the car back into park and sets the ear-buds attached to his cell in place before picking up his notebook and his pen.

 _“Hello?”_ Ray Griego says. His voice is shaky undoubtedly having just woken up. Brad thinks the man must have a considerable headache, but he doesn’t feel especially guilty about that. 

_“This is Evan Wright, CI supervisor,”_ says another voice on the line. _“Where do we stand?”_

Brad writes down ‘Evan Wright’ as Griego says, _“I uh … I think he got away.”_ Smirking to himself, Brad jots Wright’s phone number off the display.

 _“Have you locked down the area?”_ Wright snaps.

 _“Locked it down?”_ Griego asks. _“No. This is Italy, they don’t exactly lock down...”_ he trails off. There is a faint rattling sound on the line: Griego is trying to open the door to the interrogation room.

 _“How long have you worked for the agency?”_ Wright snaps.

_“Me? Four years, sir.”_   
_  
“If you want to make it to five, listen to me. Colbert is armed and extremely dangerous. Last week he assassinated two men, one of whom was a highly experienced field officer. I want you to secure that area. I want that evidence secured, and I want this done right now. Do you understand me?”_

_“Yes, sir!”_

_“I’m getting on a plane to Berlin in forty-five minutes, which means I want to hear from you in thirty, and when I ask you where we stand, I had better be impressed.”_

The line disconnects and Brad takes the bud from his ear, tosses his notebook and the phone back onto the passenger seat. He thinks, ‘what the fuck’. Then he takes the car out of park and heads out of the parking lot. 

A week ago he was most certainly not anywhere near Berlin, and most definitely did not kill anyone. Either Wright is operating on some bad information, or he is actively framing Brad. Either way, Brad already has his next destination in mind. He needs answers.

________________________

There is a café around the corner from the outpost where Nate likes to take his lunch, far enough out of the way that it’s never too crowded. On sunny days, which are most days, he sits outside under a bright yellow umbrella that blocks the sunlight. The only trouble with the café is that Nate goes to it often enough that people know him there. It’s dangerously close to a predictable routine.

He knows better, he really does but there’s maybe a small part of him that keeps to this routine on purpose. Some tiny part of him that can’t help thinking: ‘I dare you’ at whoever is out there who might want to blindside him while he’s eating Paella and sipping a coffee. 

Really, it was only a matter of time, but Nate still feels horribly disappointed when the black sedan pulls up along the street just as he’s rising from his table. He pretends that the vehicle has nothing to do with him right up until the back passenger door opens and a man gets out because there’s no mistaking who it is. Nate would know James Mattis anywhere, looking perpetually stiff and awkward in his long black coat and starched suit. His blue eyes are intense and hawk like, Nate can feel the weight of that gaze even at this distance.

He knows what it means more or less, and though he’d like nothing more than to walk back to the outpost, Nate winds his ways through the tables of the outdoor café and crosses the short expanse of sidewalk until he is standing beside the car.

“Good afternoon, Nathaniel,” Mattis greets. Pointedly, he holds open the car door.

“Sir,” Nate says as he slides into the back seat. 

There’s already someone else sitting in the cab, occupying the space opposite Nate. He has wavy, dirty blond hair that has been slicked back in an effort to make the hairstyle that is a bit too long appear professional. There’s stubble along his chin and dark circles under his eyes, but his suit is well pressed and his eyes are sharp. Nate takes it all in with a glance as Mattis slides in beside him. A second later Mattis pulls the car door closed, cutting off the bright Madrid sunlight. The car pulls away from the curb smoothly. 

“Don’t worry about Eckloff,” Mattis says, his voice steady and assuring. “I’ve sorted that out already. You can return to the outpost when this is over, but right now we need you on something else.”

“Yes sir.” Nate cuts a glance to the other occupant of the vehicle. 

“Oh,” the man says, and then wiggles his hand free of the briefcase he’s holding and extends it. “Evan Wright.” 

“Nathaniel Fick,” Nate says. They shake hands. Nate doesn’t ask anything further, and he can see that Evan is a little confused by the lack of curiosity. It’s mildly satisfying to know that he has successfully managed to disconcert the man. It seems only fair, Nate himself feels extremely disconcerted.

“I suppose you’re wondering what this is about?” Wright says after a stretch of silence. He clears his throat. “You were a part of Treadstone for some time.”

Nate keeps his expression neutral as he nods. “Four years.”

Wright taps a nervous pattern on the top of his briefcase. Glancing down at it, Nate thinks that the man already knows the answers to the questions he’s asking. He probably has Nate’s personnel file right there in that briefcase. 

Wright clears his throat again, his nerves apparent. “What was your cover for that time?”

“I was an American student studying in Paris,” Nate answers smoothly, but he doesn’t like the questions. Treadstone Operations are closed, Treadstone itself is history. All the appropriate paperwork has been filled out, all the loose ends wrapped up.

Every loose end but one.

If Evan Wright is asking about Treadstone then that means something has happened to Brad, which is just so typical of Nate’s goddamned luck. The only consolation is that there is no way Brad’s death would warrant this level of tension. Exactly the opposite. If Mattis has come all this way to speak with Nate, then that leaves only one option: Brad’s in trouble. Again.

Wright shifts forward, his gaze calculating. Nate can practically see the thoughts whirring through the other man’s head, trying to figure Nate out so he can adapt an optimal approach. Counter Intelligence, Nate thinks idly as he matches Wright’s stare. Some field experience but nothing remotely black-ops. He’s an office agent, Assistant Director maybe, certainly nothing higher than a Deputy Director.

Wright asks, “What did your job with Treadstone entail?”

Nate casts a sideways glance to Mattis, who catches the unvoiced question and answers it, “He’s got full clearance.” 

Nodding, Nate licks his lips as he turns back to Wright. “I was a Bravo agent, which means I coordinated logistical operations, and sometimes went out on basic reconnaissance. When an asset required backup in the field I was responsible for arranging it. Sometimes the situation called for me to accompany the asset myself.”

“You were responsible for the Paris assets.”

Nate tips his head to the side. “There was only one asset in Paris. Treadstone relied on Bravo agents for any situation that required direct contact with assets, when a simple text or email wasn’t adequate. It was also part of my responsibility to monitor their health.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” 

Nate purses his lips. “As a result of the training, assets were prone to…certain difficulties.”

Mattis sighs, like what he’s about to say is an unfortunate truth. “We need details here, agent.”

“Depression, anger, compulsive behavior,” Nate lists. “There were physical symptoms as well. Frequent headaches, sensitivity to light.”

Wright nods. “And memory loss.”

“No,” Nate says. “Not until Colbert.” He glances over to Mattis again, and directs his next question to the man he is actually familiar with. “Sir, can you tell me what this is about?”

It’s not Mattis who answers. Instead, Evan Wright glances out the window where Nate can see the Madrid-Barajas international airport growing closer. “Bradley Colbert has resurfaced. He killed two agents in Berlin last week, and was spotted traveling under his own passport in Naples several hours ago.”

Nate's immediate rejection of the notion that Brad attacked CIA operatives is immediately unsettled by the fact that he was confirmed in Naples. Under his own passport, no less. It means, at the very least, that the second half of the statement is verifiable, even if Nate outright rejects the premise of the first. Brad wouldn’t kill two agents unless those agents were trying to kill Brad.

That kind of thinking isn’t helpful, however. Especially as the situation seems to rapidly be devolving into another Paris fiasco. Nate needs to get back to his office and his computer, and get ahead of this before it can escalate any further.

“You’re going after him?” Nate asks calmly. Wright nods decisively as the car slows to a stop in front of the doors to the airport. Glancing out the window, Nate sees the general bustle along the sidewalk: people toting bags, people talking, laughing. He nods. “Well, good luck.”

“Nathaniel,” Mattis says, disturbingly gently given his usual temperament. “Deputy Director Wright wants you along on this one. I’ve given the go ahead.”

Nate fixes Wright with a sharp look but for once there is no trace of nerves on the other man’s face. “You were his local contact,” Wright explains. “And you were with him the night that Joe Dowdy died. You’re coming with us.” There’s no real argument that Nate can give, the orders are clear. 

When he follows the other two men out of the car, Mattis pulls a bag from the trunk and hands it over. It’s Nate’s bag, the one he keeps in his office back at the outpost, packed with essentials and a few changes of clothes. Force of habit. 

Nate is restless for the entire flight. He’s been sitting behind a desk for almost two years but even before that he was never stumbling blindly, ten steps behind his asset the way they all are right now, with no ability to course-correct as he sees fit. 

It’s very clear to him that Evan Wright is following a false lead, because when Brad told Dowdy that he intended to walk away Nate had recognized the utter gravity in the man’s eyes. He wasn’t lying. Now Brad’s resurfaced, probably to sort this mess out so he can drift back into the ether.

Nate is acutely aware that he’s working this thing from the wrong side. He’s used to being under the radar, free to piece things together and act on intel as he sees fit. He’s never been relegated to the sidelines, an observer to be consulted for specialized insight but not much else. It would almost be easier if Wright and Mattis had left him out of this and let him stay in Madrid, buried behind a stack of mission reports. He’s not sure how much good he can do at the center of this whole thing, where every action he takes will undoubtedly fall under intense scrutiny.

Except this way it’s easier to keep abreast of what the CIA is planning. If they’re going to send up an asset to take Brad down, then Nate will be among the first to know and he can set his course accordingly. For now, he follows Wright off the plane and into a navy blue van that takes them directly to their set-up in Berlin. The very image of compliance.

________________________

Espera greets them the moment they enter the office, falling into step beside Evan. “Langley pulled an image out of Naples. We’re uploading it right now.”

There’s a computer screen showing a perfect black and white image of Colbert, his face turned directly into the camera like he wants to make certain they can see that it’s him. Evan narrows his eyes at the monitor. 

Colbert is wearing a long dark coat, which hangs open to show a plain T-shirt underneath. His hair is slightly mussed and there is a pair of sunglasses hooked over the neck of his shirt. He smiles as he steps up to the customs agent, sliding his passport across the countertop. 

“Bastard isn’t hiding at all,” Mattis mutters. 

“Why Naples?” Evan asks, turning to the only person in the room who knows Colbert. Fick’s eyes, however, are rooted to the frozen image of his ex-asset. It’s impossible to read his expression. “Why now?”

“Maybe he’s running?” Espera offers, when it becomes clear that Fick isn't going to answer.

Mattis shakes his head. “Not on his own passport.”

“Zoom in on this,” Evan says, gesturing at the screen. “What is he actually doing?”

“He’s making his first mistake,” Espera says with a shrug. “It had to happen sometime.”

“It’s not a mistake.” Fick's voice is quiet and flat. When he glances up from the screen and meets Evan’s gaze, his eyebrows raise like everything should be perfectly obvious. “They don’t make mistakes. There is no random. Treadstone assets have an objective, and a target. Always.”

“Maybe.” Evan frowns. “But those objectives and targets always came from us. What’s he doing now?”

Fick glances back at the screen where Colbert’s face is captured on pause, his head tilted up as he looks directly into the camera. “Scary version?” he asks, turning back to match Evan’s stare. “He’s picking his own objectives.”

“Am I missing something?” Espera asks, breaking the heavy silence that falls on the entire room on the heels of Fick’s statement. “Who are you, exactly?”

Fick doesn’t step back when Espera gets in his face. His expression is entirely nonplussed. “Nate Fick.”

“He was a Treadstone agent and Colbert’s handler,” Evan elaborates when Espera turns to him. Apparently, the explanation is not satisfactory, because Espera looks like he’s about to argue. “I need to speak to you,” Evan says, silencing the building tirade before it can start. “My office.”

“What do we need this guy for?” Espera asks the moment Evan closes the door.

“He’s worked with Colbert. Fick has some insight into how Colbert’s mind works.”

“Well, he looks like he’s about twelve. And I don’t particularly trust him, _or_ Mattis. They talk about Colbert like he’s the goddamned boogeyman." Espera pauses to rub at the back of his neck. "He’s just a _guy_ , dammit. Give me a gun and I’ll take him out _myself_.”

“Tony,” Evan says, and Espera shuts up. It’s a good thing because Evan is feeling more than a little out of his league. The pressure to get this done and do it right is extreme. It’s not just the agency he wants to impress; Evan is determined to find justice for the agents he lost. In order to do that he needs to have at least one person whom he absolutely trusts, and can rely on to keep a clear and focused perspective. Since Espera’s the only person in that room that Evan even remotely trusts he damned well better keep his head on straight.

“You’re right,” Evan says. “Colbert isn’t some kind of bogeyman. But his training and his field experience isn’t like anything we’ve encountered before. Fick has experience dealing with these guys. It was his _job_ and, from what I’ve read in his file, he was pretty good at it.” 

“Maybe Fick was all that and a bag of chips back when Treadstone was in its prime,” Espera counters. “And maybe I haven’t read all the files you have, but I can tell you that the supposed brilliant agent that you’re relying on for information? He’s fucked up. I mean for real.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You may need clearance to read up about Treadstone, but Fick’s still an agent, and people talk.” They both know all about the gossip mill that is the CIA. “Mattis himself had plans to fast track him up into the big leagues, but after that fiasco in Paris?” Espera shakes his head. “Fick goes and requests reassignment to Madrid. Man, nothing happens in Madrid. It’s a paper mill; Fick’s a glorified secretary. They don’t even have any assets there.”

Evan rubs his forehead. He feels the start of a headache. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that the kid got in over his head, freaked out, and is basically committing career suicide because he’s pissed in his pants scare of facing down an asset again. He doesn’t _want_ to find Colbert, that’s exactly the _last_ thing he wants. Why did you bring him here?”

Evan supposes that ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ won’t fly. The truth is, he doesn’t really care about Fick’s personal problems. He doesn’t care about anything except finding Colbert and making sure someone pays for the mess in Berlin. That’s it. “I brought him here because he’s the only person who can provide insight into Colbert. He may be able to help us track him.”

“The ‘takes one to know one’ approach,” Espera asks, wryly. “You’re gonna use crazy to find more crazy.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

________________________

Munich is a pretty big haystack in which to track a single needle but Brad has been trained for this sort of thing. It takes him only a few hours to trace his target to a row of narrow, two-story brick buildings on a well-treed residential street, and only one minute to find a way inside the one that he wants without setting off any alarms. Then he waits.

Precisely one hour and forty-two minutes later, Brad hears the sound of a key turning in the lock and footsteps coming inside. Four beeps, high-pitched but of the same frequency: the alarm system is disarmed. There’s a soft rustle of fabric as the resident of 421 Kaiserstrasse slips out of his jacket and hangs it in the hall closet.

Brad listens as the footsteps come nearer, watching as the man enters the kitchen and crosses into view en route to the fridge, just like Brad had anticipated. There’s a quiet clinking of glass bottles as the fridge door is opened and then the man spins around in a smooth motion, his gun, a black Beretta 92FS, trained on Brad. His arm is perfectly steady.

Brad stands by the kitchen table, his hands at his side. He doesn’t flinch. He’s not surprised. “I emptied it.” 

“Yeah,” Pappy says, not lowering his weapon despite the fact that it has been rendered useless. “I thought it felt a bit light.” His blue eyes narrow as he surveys Brad. “That a gun in your pocket, Colbert? Or are you just happy to see me?”

Brad pulls the Sig Sauer he’d liberated from Griego out of his coat pocket and levels it at Pappy. If Pappy had bullets in his gun it would be a good old-fashioned stand off. As it is, Brad is holding all the cards. “Put the gun down,” he says, twitching his weapon to indicate the counter. 

“I thought you said this thing wasn’t loaded.”

Brad shrugs. “It isn’t. I just don’t like confrontation.”

The quip makes Pappy laugh. “All right, Iceman. You win.” 

Brad keeps his gun trained on the other assassin as Pappy sets the empty Beretta on the counter. When he steps back, Brad holds out a zip-cuff with his left hand. “Put these on. Use your teeth.”

“You know,” Pappy says, his teeth clenched as he pulls the cuffs closed around his wrists, binding his hands in front of him. “Last time we spoke, I remember distinctly that I was an absolute gentleman.”

“That’s probably why you’re not dead.” Brad jerks his head towards a shiny metal kitchen chair and adds “Sit down.”

Pappy drops onto the chair and places his hands on the table, his fingers laced together. He keeps his eyes focused on Brad and his expression entirely neutral, but otherwise he seems relaxed. “I thought you lost your memory, Iceman. How the hell did you find this place?” 

Brad ignores the question in favor of searching the briefcase the other man had carried in with him. He sets his gun on the glass tabletop and breaks the numerical code on the first try, sparing a sardonic look at Pappy, who merely shrugs. “Nothing in there I really need to hide,” he says, in his own defense.

Brad sorts through the papers anyway. Periodically, he spares a flickering glance in the other assassin’s direction. Even zip-cuffed and weaponless as he is Brad knows Pappy is a threat, but he can grab his weapon and shoot a bullet clean between the other man’s eyes before Pappy’s even managed to scoot his chair back and stand up, and they both know it. 

“What do you want?” Pappy asks, frowning as Brad pitches aside several passports and two separate wallets, each filled with credit cards and appropriate documentation, the photographs showing Pappy though none of the names match.

Brad glances up. “Dowdy.”

“Dowdy?” Pappy pulls his head back like the answer has surprised him. “He’s dead. Killed two years ago. Same night as the fiasco in Paris when you walked out.”

“Who’s running Treadstone now?” Brad asks, picking up his gun and moving away from the briefcase.

“No one,” Pappy says with an awkward shrug. “It’s shut down. We’re finished.”

“Last time we met, I remember I shot you in the foot," Brad says, narrowing his eyes as he perches on the edge of the table. 

“Yeah, you did. It’s healed just fine by the way, thanks for asking. You sonofabitch.”

“So stop bullshitting me, or I’ll shoot you some place where it’ll actually hurt.” Brad shifts his gun pointedly.

Pappy’s eyes follow the movement, but he looks earnest when he says, “The foot hurt plenty, believe me. I’m not bullshitting you anyway. Honestly, why would I lie?”

“If it’s over, then why are they still after me?”

“I have no idea. I’ve been out of the loop, Iceman. Some of the others got shifted around to other projects but me, I took the opportunity you gave me when you called me in dead.”

The trouble is, Brad can tell the other man isn’t lying. Dowdy’s dead and Treadstone is gone, but somebody still wants to kill Brad. “Have you heard of Evan Wright?”

Pappy shakes his head. “No. But like I said, I’ve been out of the loop.”

“So you have no idea what’s going on in Berlin?” Pappy shrugs, and Brad feels a bit like throwing something because this was not at all helpful. 

“Listen…” Pappy glances at his watch in a way that immediately sets Brad on edge. 

He shifts forward until the barrel of his Sig Sauer is trained perfectly between Pappy’s eyes. “What did you do?” 

“I’m trying to tell you, if you’d stop interrupting me,” Pappy huffs, leaning sideways in an effort to move away from the gun. “I’m out of the loop but they’re still watching me. It’s the price of settling down in one spot, I suppose.”

“You called it in.”

“I didn’t know it was you and, in my defense, you _are_ still holding a gun on me. For all I know, you were coming back to shoot my other foot.”

“At this rate, I’m going to!” Brad snaps, tucking his gun back into his coat pocket. “You fucking incompetent.”

“Hey, now. That’s uncalled for. I’m plenty competent and that’s why you’re angry. Anyway, I’m not an assassin anymore. I can’t be expected to sniff the air and automatically know who has broken into my home and why. You may still have that weird-ass ability, but I don’t.”

“Bull _shit_ you’re not an assassin,” Brad says, standing up from the table and striding toward the front hall. “You have four fake passports in your briefcase.” He opens a side door in the front hall and disconnects the gas line, snatches up a magazine from the table beside the letterbox and rolls it into a tight scroll. 

Pappy’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “Well, now I also have a day job. That means I’m legit.” 

Brad strides back into the kitchen, the rolled magazine in hand. “I hope your day job pays well,” he says as he wedges the magazine into the shiny chrome toaster sitting on the far counter, and then presses the lever down.

“Oh, _hell_ no.” Pappy half-groans as Brad grabs the man’s upper arm and starts dragging him to the back of the house, toward the patio door. The sound of sirens can already be heard coming down the street. He estimates the distance roughly and is satisfied that his timing good. 

Pappy’s hands are still zip-cuffed, he’s craning his head around to look at his own house as they walk away. “God _damn_ you, Iceman.”

Brad keeps dragging Pappy through his own back yard. “You wouldn’t have settled down without making sure this place was insured.”

“Yeah, but I _like_ this house.” To punctuate the end of that sentence, Pappy’s house erupts gloriously in an explosion of smoke and orange-red flame.

Brad pushes the other man down onto the grass. “This part, you’re not going to like much either.”

“Oh _come on_ , now!” Pappy says when Brad takes out the gun. He scrunches both his legs up underneath him protectively and while he’s focusing on securing his feet, Brad strikes him on the head with the butt of his gun, hard enough to send the man toppling back into the grass, unconscious.


	4. Chapter Three

Brad drives straight to the Berlin-Ostbahnhof train station. It is the easiest, most direct way out of and into the city, and the lockers are an ideal place for him to stash his bag. He’s got passports and money in there, but there are other less critical things as well, like some clothes and his notebook. It’s everything he’ll need to make a clean and easy escape should the need arise.

Once he secures the bag in a locker, he finds a phone booth and pulls out the phonebook. There is a long list of hotels in Berlin but he starts with the most likely and works his way down. On the eighth call when Brad asks, “I’d like to speak to a guest. Evan Wright?” the woman on the end of the line says, _“Yes. Just a moment, I’ll connect you.”_ Brad rips out the advertisement for the Westin Grand and heads back out to the parking area.

It’s a short cab ride to the hotel. There’s a dark wooden revolving door that leads him into the main lobby and onto a thick red carpet that runs from the door, up a grand staircase and likely continues through the halls. The floors and the walls are covered in marble tile. Brad estimates there are about ten floors in total and each one has a brass balcony that looks down precisely to where he is standing. The main lobby of the Westin Grand is very elaborate.

Brad uses his cellphone to call the front desk and ask to be connected to Evan Wright. The phone is ringing in his hand when he steps up to the counter. “How may I help you, sir?” the desk clerk asks.

“Hello. I’m trying to reach a guest, Evan Wright?”

“Just a moment.” She says turns to consult her computer before picking up the phone, and pressing the digits 235. After a moment she replaces the phone in the cradle. “I’m sorry, sir. The line is busy.”

“That’s fine, thank you very much.” Brad turns away, disconnecting his cellphone where he can hear a man’s voice asking, _“Hello? Hello, who is this?”_

He waits on the second floor, leaning on the balcony just to the left of the grand staircase. From there, he can easily spot Evan Wright as he emerges from his room, 235, and walks down the staircase toward the revolving door. There are three men that follow closely in his wake. 

From what Brad can see, Evan Wright doesn’t look like much. He’s a little bulky; Brad estimates that it’s more muscle than fat, though the man is certainly soft around the edges. His dark longish blond hair is smoothed back, his stride loose and out of place for an office agent. Whatever position Wright holds now, Brad can tell the man earned it out in the field. He also guesses that none of those field missions were particularly messy. The man carries himself with too much ease to be burdened with the darker side of the job.

Brad doesn’t put much stock in judgments based solely on appearance but somehow he pictured the voice he had heard over the phone as belonging to someone more polished, more cutthroat. A politically minded agent, interested in making a show and then moving up in the job. That sort of agent would be easier to get a fix on, their motivations far more clear.

Keeping a safe distance, he walks down the stairs and back out the revolving doors, and then climbs into a cab idling at the front of the hotel. Brad flashes his most charming smile. “Hi,” he says, exaggerating his American accent. “I’m traveling with that group right there,” he points to the van that is filling with people, one of whom is Wright. “Can you believe the tour group didn’t arrange enough vehicles for everyone?”

“Did you book with one of those discount sites?” the cab driver asks as he pulls out onto the road. “I booked a flight with one of those discount sites once and they bumped me from the plane to make room for someone who paid more money.”

“Always read the fine print,” Brad says, sounding sheepish. “I guess that’s the lesson here.”

________________________

Nate is used to small outposts with at most four agents working alongside one another. Early on in his career with the CIA he determined that the smaller, more independent locations were the best places for him. That’s what being a Bravo agent is about: maximum independence to enable maximum efficiency. 

It feels very strange to step out of the elevator beside Wright and into a regular office room filled with desks and computers, stuffed with people wearing glasses and plaid shirts, with pens tucked in their pockets. Half the people in the room look like they would barely survive a day if they were shunted back into high school.

“Okay,” Wright says, clapping his hands together. “Lets get things moving. I want to map out the timeline here and figure out Colbert’s objective. Break it down into boxes.” Nate watches as the man actually uncaps a marker and draws on a whiteboard hanging on the wall.

“Naples outbound,” Wright continues, scrawling the words in slightly tilted print on the board. “That’s box one. Check flights, trains, police reports. Sanders, why don’t you work on that?” A woman, presumably Sanders, spins her chair around to her computer and starts typing.

Wright draws another box. “Peters, box two is prior connections. I want to rerun all of Colbert’s Treadstone material. I need to know every step he’s ever taken. Box three Kim, you take this one. I want to identify his method of travel. Stay on the local police. We need a parking ticket, something, anything. Langley has offered to upload any satellite imagining we might want but we need to find a target for them.”

Wright turns to the corner where Espera, Lovell and Nate are standing. “Box four, I need fresh eyes on the buy where we lost the Neski files. Timeline it with everything we know about Colbert’s movements. Turn it upside down, flip it around, do what you have to. Let’s see what we can find.”

Everyone is tripping over themselves to snap to, and Nate is a little impressed with how Wright can command a room full of desk agents. During the car ride, and on the plane as well he hadn’t really seen much authority in the man, despite his position in the agency. It had made Nate wonder how Mattis could agree to let the man go up against Brad because frankly, they were more than incredibly outmatched.

“Come on, people!” Wright says. “We ran this guy’s life with total control for years, we should be one step ahead of him.”

Nate doesn’t comment because he knows just how inaccurate that statement is. What Langley doesn’t know about its assets won’t hurt them. What Langley doesn’t know about its assets wouldn’t even fit in a book the size of the full set _Encyclopedia Britannica_.

“Hey,” Espera says, waving Nate over. “I’ve got the file outlining the Berlin op.”

There’s a high-pitched chiming sound and Wright reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cellphone and frowning at the number. He flips it open. “Hello?” 

The next moment Wright’s snapping his fingers and pointing at his cell with his eyes widened. It would be comical, but Nate realizes in an instant what it means. While people trip over themselves to set up a trace that won’t get them anywhere, Nate looks out at the windows of the office. 

Most of the blinds are half closed but he can still make out the building across the street. It’s shorter than the office building they’re in, the roof is just about perfect height, on-level with the floor on which Wright has established his base of operations. 

“We need ninety seconds to triangulate his position,” a man murmurs. 

“Colbert?” Wright asks. “What do you want?”

The call is patched through the speakers so they can all hear Brad when he answers. His voice sounds rough in a way Nate knows means he’s running on little to no sleep. Brad asks, _“Are you running Treadstone?”_ and Nate hears someone murmur, “Jesus, the man is crazy and he’s going to kill us all.”

Espera rolls his eyes and knocks the guy fairly hard in the arm in answer. Wright says, “Treadstone was closed down two years ago. You know that.”  
 _  
“Then who’s planning the missions now?”_

They’re nothing questions. Nate thinks Brad’s just feeling Wright out, trying to get a sense of him. Seeing as Nate’s almost entirely certain that Brad has no idea why Wright has launched a massive manhunt on him, it seems pretty reasonable. Still, he’s also very aware that Wright is pacing back and forth in front of the window. 

If Nate wants to be useful there’s only so much he can accomplish in this office.

Brad wouldn’t be calling if he didn’t already have Wright pinned. That means Brad knows where Wright’s staying, and where he’s working. Nate’s pretty confident that Brad has optics on the office right now, and he’s fairly sure that he’s stationed on the roof of the building across the way. Wright’s agents can triangulate all they want; Nate knows his asset.

In fact, he remembers a scenario not unlike this back before he was even an official Treadstone agent. Remembers sitting at a café in Casablanca, sipping iced tea and playing online Tetris because he was out of ideas and sick of the cat-and-mouse game. He remembers the happy little pinging sound his computer had made, and he’d clicked open his email to find a message: ‘Here’s looking at you, kid,’ beneath a photograph of him that must have been taken only seconds before.

A normal person would have probably stood up and relocated inside, called the police, left the café. A normal person wouldn’t have felt a flicker of triumph mixed with a modicum of amusement. He remembers squinting at the picture, calculating angles and trajectories before he had shifted around in his seat and raised his iced tea up in a toast, staring right at the second floor window of the building across the street, diagonal to the café. There had been no indication that someone was in that room but Nate knew that his asset was watching.

“There are no missions,” Wright is saying, still speaking into the phone, his voice hesitant, like he thinks he’s speaking to a child or someone who might easily get confused. “It’s over.”

Nate shifts away from the desk he’s been standing by, heading over to the windows. He moves slowly, his arms crossed tightly to his chest like this whole thing is upsetting him and he just can’t sit still. That’s his cover after all, he might as well put it to use.

 _“Then what do you want with me?”_

“Have you forgotten what happened in Berlin? Colbert, you killed two people.” There’s a stretch of silence, and Nate uses that opportunity to situate himself beside Wright. “Colbert?” Wright prompts.

 _“I want to come in,”_ Brad says.

“Uh.” Wright hesitates, clearly taken off-guard. Nate braces himself and hopes that his gambit has worked. Their last encounter in Paris was fleeting. They didn’t even exchange any words. Wright glances around the office and then clears his throat. “Okay. How do you want to do it?”

“We need thirty five seconds for the trace,” someone whispers, just as Brad says, _“I need someone I know to bring me in.”_ There's a wash of triumph and relief that pours through Nate after hearing that, but he makes certain to keep it off his face. Instead, he widens his eyes a little when Mattis shoots him a glance, plainly worried. 

“Who?” Wright asks, but he’s staring right at Nate when he says it. Everyone already knows where this is going.

 _“There was a guy in Paris, he was part of the program. He used to handle logistics.”_ Nate waits for it but Brad doesn’t remember his name anymore. _“Alexander Strasse, thirty minutes. Under the World Clock. Send him alone. Give him your phone.”_

Wright meets Nate’s gaze, his brow pinched. The reluctance is written in every inch of his expression. “What if I can’t find him?” 

_“It’s easy,”_ Brad says. _“He’s standing right next to you.”_

The line disconnects and a technician curses. “We didn’t get the trace.”

“We don’t need the trace. He’s right here. He’s got eyes on the building!” Espera points out. “Did anyone else find that creepy as fuck?” Everyone is too professional to answer, but Nate sees how they all duck their heads. He bites back a smile.

________________________

Everyone is rifling through maps and frantically tapping on their computers. Evan’s still a little freaked out at the realization that five minutes ago, Colbert had optics on him. Possibly also a weapon.

 _“No sign of him,”_ one of Evan’s agents reports over the comms. He’d sent them out to see if they could track where the man had been calling from, or where he might have gone after he had disconnected. _“We’re splitting up to check the street.”_

“Forget it, he’s gone,” Mattis says, his arms are crossed over his chest and he’s glaring. “You don’t see him? He’s not standing right in front of you? You’ll never find him.”

Evan is getting a little tired of the man continually speaking about Colbert as if he is some sort of super-charged, super-skilled, superman. It was disturbing enough realizing that he had probably been standing right in an assassin’s crosshairs while they’d been chatting on the phone. It’s made Evan acutely aware of all the windows in this office.

He should have picked a taller building.

“He’s putting Fick in the middle of everything,” Lovell points out from where he’s huddled with three other people around a map. Evan glances over to Fick who is standing apart from the rest of the group, just a little behind Mattis. It makes Evan wonder if Fick is hiding, or if Mattis is protecting his agent, or if they both just happen to be standing like that. Maybe there’s some sort of daddy-kink between them, Evan doesn’t think he’s ever seen James Mattis give a shit about anything or anyone. Fick seems to be a first.

“This is a security nightmare,” Espera says. “There is no possible way we can secure this.”

Mattis pushes forward through the group. “Call a Mayday into Berlin station. Get snipers, D.O.D, whatever they’ve got.”

Evan shakes his head. “No snipers. You put snipers in place and it’ll scare Colbert off. I need answers.”

Mattis stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “You can’t honestly think the man wants to come in?”

“He knows something about the Neski case, and I’m not passing up this chance to find out what it is.”

“Don’t be a jackass,” Mattis snarls. “Not when we’re this close.”

“Are we talking about protecting Fick, or killing Colbert?”

Mattis shoots a look in Fick’s direction. “We’re talking about the next dead body, because if it isn’t Colbert then it could damned well be Nathaniel.”

“You are not hearing me!” Evan shouts, the volume of his voice unexpected and all the more effective for his usual soft spokenness. “Colbert in a body bag gives me exactly nothing!”

Mattis gestures to the side office, says, “Talk with me for a second.”

Evan doesn’t like how the man phrases everything like an order, but he follows Mattis through to the office and waits while he closes the door. “I know how you’re feeling here,” Mattis starts. “You lost two agents and you want answers. You want it to mean something. But there’s not a damned thing Colbert can give you that will bring your men back. Nothing in those files will make their sacrifice worthwhile. You just have to let it go.”

He’s not in the mood to hear this, especially when Mattis adds, “We’re professionals. When an operation goes bad, we tie it off. That’s the job. Don’t put other people at risk because you think you’ve got something to prove.”

Evan jerks his chin up. “If there is something you’re not telling me, I want to know it _right now_ before I send agent Fick out there. Do you understand me?”

Mattis stares at him for a stretch, then he huffs and shakes his head. “You talk about this stuff like you read it in a book.” He strides from the room, but Evan can’t bring himself to follow. He’s jittery, pacing like a caged animal and he can’t stop his mind from racing long enough to make a decision.

Espera pauses in the open doorway. “What do you want to do?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Evan sighs. “Put the snipers in place. If this goes south, then tell them to take Colbert out.”

________________________

Alexander strasse is a wide, bricked plaza surrounded by shops, fronting on a busy street with regular buses and trams. It is, in short, pretty much an ideal location for Brad to set up a meet and likewise, a total nightmare for Wright to attempt to secure. Nate has always admired Brad’s ability to unerringly take full and complete control of a situation when out in the field.

He doesn’t for a moment believe that Brad’s actually going to come in. Nate doesn't even think Wright believes it either. Then again, maybe he’s giving the man too much credit. 

In truth, Nate’s not entirely certain what Wright hopes to achieve from this except possibly to receive some intel. After all, the man ensured that Nate was pretty heavily wired before being dropped off at the meet. If Wright really thinks that Brad isn’t going to guess about the wire, though. Well. Maybe he needs to re-read those Treadstone files.

As for Nate he’s not sure what his own angle is. It’s a bit of an involuntary reaction, stepping up whenever Brad’s concerned. Mostly it’s been hard, sitting on the sidelines while other people call the shots. He’s being tapped for what he knows about his asset but not much else. Wright spent the duration of the two hour flight pressing Nate for as much information on Treadstone in general and Brad in particular. By the time they arrived in Berlin though, Nate felt a bit like he’d already fulfilled his purpose.

Brad’s still his asset. Even if Nate’s not a Paris Bravo anymore and Brad’s not a Paris asset.

There’s not much that he thinks he can do in this situation, but at least he can ensure that no one is going to overreact and get people killed because they’re anxious. 

He wishes the men on the ground with him would stop touching their earpieces when they talk to each other, and that the snipers on the rooftops surrounding the plaza would at least try to crouch down. It’s sloppy work and Nate wonders how they were ever hired in the first place. Then again, Treadstone pooled together the very best, and Nate knows it’s likely that he’s been thoroughly spoiled as a result. Either way, the more obvious these guys are, the safer Brad will be. That’s how Nate’s going to look at it, even if he’s a little professionally insulted on Brad’s behalf.

There’s a marching protest that begins to move through the plaza. He doesn’t take the time to read the banners. Based on the shouts he hears he guesses they’re protesting the demolition of a building. Nate holds his ground as the people spill around him, swallowed up in their shouts and cheers.

Wright’s on the comms checking in but Nate ignores him. Everyone else currently in the field might have no qualms making themselves absolutely obvious, but Nate is not going to let on that he’s wired by standing around talking to himself. He knows that wherever Brad is, he’s already got eyes on Nate. If Brad’s going to make a move, it will be now.

Right on cue, Wright’s borrowed phone rings in Nate’s pocket. It’s smaller than Nate’s own cell and feels a little awkward in his hand as he answers it. “Yes?”

Brad’s voice, achingly familiar, hits Nate so hard he closes his eyes for a second. _“There’s a tram coming towards you,”_ Brad says. _“Get on it.”_

Disconnecting the call, Nate replaces the phone in his pocket, already en route toward the tram. He’s not expecting Brad to be there because it’s a confined space. If he is there, then Nate doesn’t want to risk drawing attention to him; there are over twenty agents on the ground in the plaza and every one of them is armed. He doesn’t glance around; he keeps his gaze trained forward.

When the doors open, he steps on board and keeps his head turned down slightly, refuses to glance at his surroundings. There’s no point trying to guess what’s going on because he’s not supposed to know. He’s supposed to be a retired Bravo agent turned desk jockey, gun-shy after the mess that was Paris. A desk agent wouldn’t be able to predict what Brad’s strategy is, so Nate stops himself from trying. He stands conveniently close to the tram doors but not so close to appear like an idiot. Then he waits. There’s a happy chime as the doors close, and then the whole car jolts as the tram begins to move.

If it were Nate, he’d use the tram as a chokehold and the obviously tapped phone as bait: get the agents to start panicking about a situation that was never in their control to begin with, and then snatch the target right out from under them. He’d have a destination already in mind, some place close with a solid crowd en route to act as buffer. 

Clearing throat, Nate shifts his stance and carefully reminds himself that he is not supposed to be thinking strategically. 

If he were thinking strategically, he’d have a thing or two to say about Wright clearly taking the bait. Obviously, the man has issued the order to converge because as the tram starts to pull away from the plaza Nate looks out the window and sees the agents rushing toward their vehicles. They’ll meet the tram at the station ahead but Nate can tell by the escalation in the voices outside that the protest that was passing the plaza is actually centered just up ahead, near the next stop.

Suddenly, he is absolutely certain that Brad is on the tram with him. He doesn’t turn to scan the people but he flexes his hand around the strap he’s holding for balance. The tram slows and then jolts to a halt at the next stop and Nate sees agents pushing against the people spilling out onto the sidewalk. The risk has obviously been deemed too great, the agents are coming in to retrieve him.

It’s already too late, Nate thinks, and right then is when he feels the hand wrap around his upper arm and start tugging him forward toward the front doors. He glances up at Brad’s profile and can’t get much beyond the fact that Brad’s clean-shaven, his cheeks flushed a soft pink from the cold wind, his hair a bit longer but not by much. 

He looks exactly like how Nate remembers him. 

They step off the tram in synch. Nate clamps down on the surge of emotions that are assaulting him and focuses on the one thing that matters: right now Evan Wright, James Mattis, and a roomful of CIA operatives are listening to everything that is happening, and Nate refuses to destroy his efforts at subterfuge by saying anything that might show him as something other than an ex-agent turned desk-jockey. “Brad,” he says, a quaver in his voice. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Remind me what I said back in Paris,” Brad snaps. He’s still holding Nate by the arm but it’s not a painful grip. Nate lets himself be pulled through the crowds. “I said ‘leave me alone', didn’t I? 'Leave me out of this’.”

They’re walking down a bustling sidewalk and a woman in a beige felt coat jostles Nate. He picks up his speed to match Brad’s. “I told them that. I told them that I believed you.”

Brad glances at him, his blue eyes shifting to flash a sideways look. “I’m going to ask you some very simple questions,” he says, turning his attention back to where they’re going. “You’re going to answer them, truthfully. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Are you _certain_ that we’re clear? Because if you lie to me, I will not hesitate to shoot you.”

Nate wonders if that’s true. There was a time when it was, when Nate had been sent out into the field armed with nothing more than the knowledge he’d gleaned from a file and his own training, to meet a lethal asset who had absolutely no reason to trust him. It was Nate’s final test before becoming a Bravo agent: he first had to survive meeting his asset.

It feels like they’re back there all over again, and Nate reacts in precisely the same way that he had then. “We’re clear,” he says, utterly calm and entirely steady. He trusts Brad. He's trusted Brad since before they even met, when the man was nothing more than a file on Nate's desk.

Back then it was necessity: suspicion begets suspicion. Trust begets trust.

Brad takes them down a flight of stairs and turns right, into a tiled underground hallway. Just like that, they’re lost in a pressing crowd of people walking this way or that, caught up in their own lives. Nate tries to look over his shoulder but he’s certain they are far beyond the reach of any agents that might have spotted them leaving the tram.

“Who’s Evan Wright?” Brad jerks his arm, and Nate turns his attention forward again.

he licks his lips. “He’s a task force chief.”

“Does he work for Treadstone?”

“No, he’s a deputy director, Counter Intelligence. Treadstone doesn’t exist anymore,” Nate says. “It’s been shut down.”

Brad maneuvers him smoothly out of the way when a man marches toward them, determined to get wherever he's going. When he glances over his shoulder Nate realizes the man is talking on a cell phone, an ear bud hanging in one ear, but then he laughs, loud and deep and Nate thinks: not an agent.

“Why is he trying to kill me?”

Taking a breath, Nate collects himself. “Last week, an agency field officer tried to make a buy off of one of Wright’s ops. He was trying to sell out a mole, but you got to him first.”

“ _I_ got to him?” Brad huffs.

“They found partial prints that Wright traced back to Treadstone. They know it was you.”

“That is un-fucking-believable.” Brad spins Nate around and shoves him back against a tiled column in the middle of the hallway. No one seems particularly concerned with them. No one takes a second look. Nate forces himself to stay absolutely still as Brad presses close and snarls, “Last week I was on the other side of the country, four thousand miles away, living in India.” Brad shakes his head. “Someone came for me. They tried to kill me, but they shot Ray instead.”

“Ray’s dead?” Nate asks, stupidly. He can’t help it. He’d done a lot of research into Ray Person back when he first learned Brad was traveling with the man. When Nate made the decision to step back and give Brad time there was a part of him that had been relieved to think of Ray still having Brad’s back.

“This ends now,” Brad says, somewhat cryptically, and then he jerks Nate away from the column and over to a thick metal door of a maintenance room.

When the door slams shut Nate realizes that this was where they had been heading all along: a place deep enough and secure enough underground to block the signal from the wire Nate’s wearing. They are completely and totally alone. Roughly, Brad releases his grasp on Nate's arm. Nate refuses to stumble. 

“What do you people want with me? Why are you trying to frame me?” 

“I’m only here because of Paris,” Nate explains, keeping his voice steady. “Mattis and Wright dragged me into this.” _I’m here for you_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Now is not the time.

Brad’s gaze narrows. “Who’s Mattis?”

“Dowdy’s boss. He was the supervisor for Treadstone, and he’s the one who shut it down.”

“He ran Treadstone?” Brad says, almost to himself. Then he moves forward into Nate’s space so quickly that Nate can’t help an involuntary step backward. The movement brings him right up to the wall. “Is he here in Berlin?”

Nate jerks his head up. “Yes.”

“What was Wright buying? What were the files?”

“Information on Dowdy. Something to do with a Russian politician named Vladimir Neski.”

“Neski?” Brad’s eyes widen, his nostrils flaring. 

Nate knows that expression, knows where this is heading but he's stuck. Brad doesn't remember him. He can't respond the way he used to. All Nate can do is say, "Take it easy. Tell me what's going on.”

Brad ignores him, his hands reaching out and wrapping once again around Nate's upper arms. “When was I in Berlin?”

Nate frowns, a little wrong-footed for the topic change especially when, as far as he knows, the answer is ‘never’. “What?”

“I worked a job here, for Treadstone,” Brad insists, his fingers flexing. “When was I in Berlin?”

“No. You never worked a job here. It’s not in your file.”

All at once, Brad releases his grip on Nate. He runs his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. It makes Nate ache, remembering all at once how he used to smile whenever he saw Brad ruffled like that. How he used to tease: "You look like the back-end of a baby duck."

Brad's voice is whisper-soft as he says, “I remember it. I was in Berlin. I did a job here.”

“Brad, you’re okay,” Nate says, cautiously forcefully pushing his own memories aside. He knows these signs. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

Brad lunges forward, his fists slamming against the tile on either side of Nate’s head. This time Nate doesn’t flinch. “I worked a job here!” 

“I believe you," Nate says, firmly. "But I’m telling you that it wasn’t in your file.”

When Brad rests his forehead against his right arm it brings him impossibly close, his hair brushing along the side of Nate’s cheek. “This doesn’t make any sense.” 

“No,” Nate agrees. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Taking a steadying breath, Brad steps back. Calm once more. “Who are you?” Then he pauses, his expression freezing like he’s piecing something together and can’t quite believe the conclusion he’s arrived at. When he asks again, Brad’s expression is twice as intense. It sends a curl of heat through Nate that he locks down. “Who are you?”

Nate swallows. “Nate.”

Brad's pale blue eyes are fixed to his, his expression open, almost bewildered. Brad moves slowly, almost cautious as he leans forward, stopping when their mouths are separated by only a fraction of space. Nate realizes he’s unconsciously tipped his head back, expecting a kiss. 

Brad doesn't kiss him. Instead, he closes his eyes and breathes in, deep, like they’re standing on a beach in the midday sun and there’s fresh air and tropical flowers and bright, fresh scents to inhale, not stuck underground with the stench of oil and sweat and dirt. His nose bumps against Nate’s cheek as he shifts his head, and Nate can’t stop himself. Tipping his head back, he presses their lips together. 

It’s chaste; it’s supposed to be just a simple connection, because it’s been almost two years and Nate has missed this. But it doesn’t stay chaste. They open their mouths to the kiss at exactly the same moment. Brad steps forward, pressing Nate firmly against the wall, his palms braced on the tile bracketing Nate’s head. 

Nate keeps his own hands fisted at his sides. If he reaches out and grabs hold of Brad, he knows won’t ever let him go again. Right now it’s just the two of them, hidden away from the world and wrapped up in each other, but it won’t be too long before they have to part ways. This isn’t the time to be figuring this out, remembering this. 

That has to come later, when Brad’s ready.

For now, Nate takes advantage of everything that’s on offer. He closes his eyes and breathes in Brad’s soapy fresh scent, skirts his tongue along the back of Brad’s teeth, just a hint of pressure because Nate knows what it does to him. 

Brad’s hips judder forward, press in a little harder, and just as Nate’s considering reaching out Brad jerks like someone has physically pulled him away. When he steps back his cheeks are flushed and his lips are bruised red. His eyes are wide and a little glassy, and his hair is a mess. It’s a side of Brad that Nate is very familiar with. 

Used to be very familiar with. 

“Who are you?” Brad gasps. It sounds almost rhetorical, like he’s not sure he wants the answer, like he’s desperate to hear it, regardless.

Nate moves away from the wall and tries to think of how he should respond. He’s Nate Fick; he’s a CIA agent, formerly a Treadstone Bravo, formerly Paris Bravo and Brad’s contact and also his handler; he’s Brad’s lover, or whatever, Nate doesn’t think they actually settled on a word that they were both happy with. 

He was Brad’s, and Brad was his, and that worked for them. 

He was all of those things. _Is_ all of those things. Is still waiting. But before he can give voice to any of it, Brad takes another step away, and then he turns and walks out the door.

________________________

The nausea is something that Evan hasn’t gotten used to. There was a time when he wondered how other people managed it, but he’s since determined that most everyone else doesn’t have this strange reaction to the realization that they’ve likely just sent someone out to be killed.

Bradley Colbert has completely disappeared, and this time he’s taken Nathaniel Fick with him.

Evan has absolutely no idea what just happened because, frankly, it was perfectly executed. He feels like an overconfident idiot for ever thinking it was a good idea to let Fick go, and wonders why the other man even agreed, given all he knew about Colbert.

Probably Fick was just obeying commands from his superior. Evan should have damned well known better.

“Hey,” Espera says, dragging in a large map of the streets of Berlin and disrupting Evan’s brooding. “Check this out. This is Alexanderplatz, right here. We got three levels, fifteen tunnels, and they’re all converging in this five block radius.” He shifts the pen he’s using to point at the map. “Over here, this… 'Luftschulzbunker’. It was some kind of shelter back during the war.”

Evan leans closer to look at the map. “How many men do we have out there?”

“Two coming down the back stairs. The rest are fanned out for a search of the area.” 

It’s good. It’s better than good, it’s the only lead they have. Evan just hopes that one of those guys in the field doesn’t report that they’ve found Fick’s body somewhere. “What’s our situation here?”

“What?” Espera asks. “Here as in the ground? Or here as in…”

“'Here’ as in right here. What’s our security situation in this building?” It was foolish overconfidence that made him overlook this as long as he has. Colbert is a slippery sonofabitch and Evan doesn’t want to take any more chances. “Check everything. Recheck all the stairwells, hallways. Every corner.”

Three guys stand up and nod. “It’s done,” they say, and head out to execute the order.

The next part is something he'd been hoping to avoid, but it's no longer possible. “Okay,” Evan says on a sigh. “Let’s take this public. Release Colbert’s photo to the Berlin police, and someone check out that story he was telling about India.”

Lovell nods sharply. “On it.”

Mattis steps out of the kitchenette, a mug of coffee in one hand, the steam rising up from it almost managing to obscure the man's condescending smirk. Almost. “You’re in a big pile of shit, Evan, and you don’t have the shoes for it.”

“Colbert said he didn’t know anything about Berlin.”

Mattis snorts derisively. “Colbert knew that Fick was wearing a wire! Don’t you think that bullshit was strictly for our benefit?”

Evan had considered that, but still, “He didn’t sound like a man in control to me.”

“We already know he was in Berlin,” Mattis snaps, striding forward, his coffee still in hand. “His memory has more holes than a Swiss cheese. His mind is broken! We should know, _we’re_ the ones that broke it! And now…”

“And now you want to terminate him?” Evan steps right up until he's almost nose-to-nose with the other man. “You’ve been pushing that course since we reached Berlin. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“The man said you were running Treadstone,” Mattis counters. “Is there something _you_ want to tell _me_?”

Evan backs off but he doesn’t back down. He refuses to shoot first and ask questions later. “I am convinced that Colbert knows something.”

“What he knows is that you’re after him.” Mattis takes a sip of his coffee, quirking one eyebrow up. “In the interest of self-preservation, maybe you should start with that.”

________________________

Brad ducks into an Internet café, pays cash and finds a computer in a far corner by the back exit. Even when he’s not expecting an ambush he can’t help preparing for one. He looks into Vladimir Neski because that’s the only lead he has, the only way Brad connects to any of this at all. There are a number of articles about the man outlining his growing career as a respected Russian politician who opposed oil privatization and was deeply passionate about cracking down on corruption in Russia. He was happily married and had a young daughter. No affairs, no scandals at all, at least until he was killed by his wife.

A murder-suicide in a hotel in Berlin.

He knows where this is all going to end already but he can’t just leave it there. He looks up the address of the hotel and heads back out onto the street.

Hotel Brecker is a fifteen-minute walk away, and Brad spends every one of those minutes carefully keeping his mind blank. It’s a technique that works until he comes onto Kurfurstendamm Street and spots the lit awning and the scrawled yellow luminescent sign. Suddenly, he's remembering the smell of fresh leather masked by tobacco. It’s raining and he’s sitting in a car and Joe Dowdy is turning around in the front seat to look at him, a cigarette in his hand as he says, “This is not a drill, soldier. This is a live mission, and you’re a go.”

The memory is so intense that Brad stops walking. He doesn’t realize he’s standing in the middle of the road in front of the hotel until a car honks at him to move on. “Sir, are you alright?” a valet asks as Brad steps onto the curb.

“Yes.” Brad keeps his head down as he steps into the revolving door.

Someone is playing a piano in the lobby lounge. He stops by the mahogany front desk that stretches between two tall ionic columns. “I’d like a room for the night, please?” he asks when a desk clerk greets him.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No.” He waits while the clerk types into the computer, but then he remembers the notation he’d made in his journal a week ago, when he’d still been living in Goa. “Actually,” Brad says. “Would room 645 be available? I’ve stayed there before.”

The man consults his computer. “I’m sorry, that room is already booked. I can give you 644, it’s right across the hall.”

“That will be fine.” He hands over his Australian passport; the name reads Braydon White and it makes him wonder who was behind selecting his alter identities. Thinking about that helps him fight the memories that blur his vision because he can recall being in this front lobby before, watching Vladimir Neski speaking with a group of men in dark suits, each of them holding a champagne glass up as they shared a toast.

Brad takes the elevator to the sixth floor, hesitating by room 645. There is no one else in the hallway with him. He raises his hand and raps lightly on the door. When no one answers, he picks the lock and slips inside.

The room is exactly as he expected, right down to the shadows creeping in from the sheer curtains. Brad remembers standing by that chair, using the glow from the street lamps to prep a hypodermic needle. Remembers the tightening in his chest when Mrs. Neski entered the room along with her husband, her voice light and teasing.

The gun had been a last minute improvisation but it had looked convincing. He can remember that he barely hesitated. It was part of his job; the training probably took away any impulse to hesitate. It didn’t remove the ache of guilt and shame.

The phone ringing calls him out of his memories. There are shadows moving beneath the door, and when he peaks through the peephole he sees a squad of polizei amassing around room 644. His advantage is that they don’t know where he actually is, but that’s not something that can buy him much time, especially as he’s unable to utilize any of the hotel’s common exits.

Which just leaves an uncommon one.

Brad cuts through the room to the bathroom. There’s a small window that he opens and slips out of so that he can crouch on the narrow ledge as he reaches for the drainpipe. The pipe, at least, is well maintained, which means it’s barely any effort at all to climb up to the roof. He hears the raised voices of the police as they begin searching rooms.

Brad travels along the rooftops for a block until he finds a fire escape that brings him down to street level. He is done with Berlin. He has the answers he was looking for and now it’s time to move on.

________________________

It takes about five minutes after the call comes in to get from the building where they’ve set up their headquarters to the Hotel Brecker. Evan strides in alongside Espera to find Lovell already there, waiting for them in the lobby. “We’ve got a description,” he greets. “Colbert’s in a dark coat, possibly leather. Dark pants and a dark T-shirt.”

“That’s real distinctive,” Espera snorts.

Lovell smirks. “The cops here want to round up all the hotel guests and search them individually.”

Espera mutters, “Yeah, that’s going to work” at the same time that Evan says, “That sounds like a good use of their time.” They share an eye roll but the exchange hasn’t gotten them any closer to their target.

Evan glances around at the main lobby of the hotel. “What the hell was he doing here?” 

Espera looks around and then shrugs. “Maybe he just wanted a place to stay the night.” It’s the only indication Espera gives that he’s started to feel it, too: that strange sympathy that’s been creeping up on Evan ever since Colbert surfaced. For all that the files and the people who knew the man are quick to claim he’s a lethal asset, Evan can’t help thinking that when Colbert said he was done with the CIA, he had meant it.

________________________

Brad’s getting a little tired of feeling perpetually hunted. He’s walking down a main street in Berlin, his pace steady, his expression smooth. Really, though, he can’t help paying attention to every siren he hears because he knows that they’re likely coming for him. 

There are polizei on the street holding plastic-wrapped squares of cardboard that Brad knows hold his photograph. He gets to a juncture in the street and looks left to keep his head turned away from two polizei on a motorcycles, but a guard for a jewelry store spots him and speaks hurried German into his radio.

He’s been spotted, and he can already hear the sirens moving to converge on his location. Brad spares enough time to consult an illuminated map outside the Zoologischer Garten station and then takes off at a sprint when the polizei pull up on the sidewalk just behind his location. They race after him on foot shouting at him to stop and repeatedly identifying themselves, “Polizei!”, apparently as added incentive for him to obey.

It’s nighttime but there are crowds of people everywhere, mostly getting last minute shopping done or just walking to enjoy a pleasant evening. Brad zigzags between them and then races across a four-lane roadway, cutting down a side street.

He’s faster than they are. He’s trained for this and he’s kept himself in shape. What’s more, Brad’s not burdened with anything heavier than his own coat. The trick is in the breathing, which he keeps measured and steady even as he increases his pace.

There are motorcycles and more police cars, but they can’t follow him as closely because he’s navigating down busy pedestrian-only streets and up flights of stairs whenever he can. Running fast is all well and good, but even Brad knows he can’t keep this up forever. Sooner or later, he has to lose his tail.

The opportunity comes when he spots the station he had made note of on the map. He races across another busy street, cars slamming on their breaks and honking at him like he doesn’t already know that running out into traffic is a bad idea. He climbs another staircase and then cuts over into Friedrichstrasse in time to sprint directly onto a waiting train. Brad checks his watch and lets out a slow breath because yes, he timed that exactly perfectly.

Then again, the police are directly on his tail. If he takes the train he’s bought himself a break, nothing more, a chance to catch his breath. They’d know what train he’s on and where he’s heading. He'd be arrested the minute he pulled into the next station. There’s another train coming in on the other track. In the distance, Brad notes that the station is right by the water; a boat blasts its horn as it begins to slide beneath the bridge. 

He waits until the polizei duck onto a train car further back, searching for him, and then he makes his move. Brad dashes across the track in the moment before the oncoming train passes through the station. He hears the shouts behind him that let him know his movement has been noticed, but he doesn’t stop.

Up the steps of the bridge, taking them two at a time, he climbs over the metal railing and looks down at the barge moving sluggishly below his feet. There’s a brief moment of chill winter air whooshing past, and then he lets go and drops like a stone onto a pile of fishing nets. 

It’s nowhere near a soft landing; Brad's fairly certain he has sprained his ankle, and he lies still for a moment as the polizei lean over the railing, watching as the barge disappears from their view, coasting beneath the bridge. While they are busy undoubtedly racing to the other side he forces himself up, limping from the bow of the boat toward the stern, grabbing up a metal hook as he goes. 

Braced on the back of the boat, Brad snags the hook on the side of the bridge and then dangles with his feet over the water as the boat moves onward. It’s a little ungainly, but he’s not getting graded for style. What counts is that he’s able to pull himself up the hook and then onto the bridge where he hops neatly over the railing and walks back along the bridge with his hands in his coat pockets, just another face in the crowd, while the polizei flag the barge to the shore and climb aboard to search it.

The limp is a setback but it’s a minor one. His walk has become more distinguishable but at the moment no one is even looking at him. Brad slips back to the station and onto the train without anyone sparing him a second glance.

________________________

Evan is standing in room 645 at the Hotel Brecker and suffering from an acute sense of déjà vu that he can’t quite place. The room, he is certain, looks just like every other room on that floor, and he knows he’s never stayed at the Brecker before. So why do the thick red curtains and black and white striped upholstered chairs feel so familiar?

“Hey.” Espera sticks his head into the room to check that Evan is there before he enters. He’s holding his cellphone in his hand. “They found Fick. Apparently he’s back at the Westin.”

Evan frowns, confusion mixing with relief. “Colbert let him go?”

“Looks like.” He glances around the room, tapping his phone against his palm. 

Evan frowns at the telling nervous habit. “Whatever it is, just ask.”

“What?” Espera says, and then shrugs. “I was just wondering. If Colbert checked into the room across the hall, why the hell would he come in here?”

It’s precisely what Evan has been asking himself since he arrived at the Brecker. It’s also exactly what he needs to hear in order to latch onto the thought that’s been niggling in his head. “I’ve seen this room before, in a photo. There was a chalk outline right here.” He looks at the rug he’s standing on. “Around the body of Vladimir Neski.”

“No shit. This is where his wife killed him?”

Evan raises his eyebrows. “Do you really still think he wife killed him?”

Espera ducks his head and tucks his hands in his pockets. Evan wants to tell him that he looks a bit like a little kid when he stands like that, but he’s too preoccupied with thinking about Colbert.

“He must have gotten out through this window,” Espera says, tipping his head toward the bathroom.

Stepping over to the window Evan peers down at the street below, then cranes his head up toward the roof. It’s the most likely escape route, but still, “You think he can climb like that?”

“Shit,” Espera says. “This is nothing. I can do this no problem. Anyway, weren’t you the one saying these Treadstone assets are like, Supermen or something?”

He never said anything like that. Not in those words, anyway. Evan can’t help but feel a little reluctantly impressed, though, especially when Colbert continues to surpass his expectations. “I want you to stay on Colbert.” 

“Yeah, sure. But first, you got a minute? There’s something I want to run by you.” The way Espera glances at a group of agents standing in the hall raises Evan’s interest. That, and the way he adds, “It’s probably nothing…”

Evan says, “Show me,” which is how he ends up back at the building where this whole mess started. Where he lost two of his agents and three million dollars for a fingerprint that he is starting to wonder is even real.

Espera takes him down to the electrical room. “So, here’s what I’ve been struggling with. When this whole thing started, I had no real problem believing how any of this shaped up. Am I right?”

Evan shrugs and nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. But now we’ve got this badass asset doing some seriously freaky shit. I mean this man is ice-cold, straight-up hardcore superman, with crazy-mad skills.” 

Evan pinches the bridge of his nose. “What’s your point, Tony?”

“My _point_ is, if Colbert’s got all the skills that we’ve seen him using, why didn’t he realize that second charge he set, the one that never went off, was placed on a sub-line for the breaker above?” That catches Evan’s attention. “I mean it’s nothing, it’s completely unnecessary. Shouldn't Colbert have known that? Why would he even set that charge?”

It’s another thing that doesn’t sit right. Evan’s been struggling with this since he first talked to Fick, everything just a little too easy, a little too convenient. If there was one thing the fiasco in Alexanderplatz convinced him of, it was that Colbert was as good as everyone kept saying he was. It makes Espera’s insight even more troubling, because Colbert should have known that. _Would_ have, Evan’s certain. 

If that’s the case, then why set the charge? The only way it makes sense is if it wasn’t ever supposed to go off. If the print that Evan’s team lifted, so perfect and complete, was _meant_ to be pulled from that line. Evan really hates being led around by the nose. 

“Call Mattis and tell him to wait for me at the hotel. I want to talk to him.”

“You don’t need me as backup?” 

Evan rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Stay on Colbert. I’ve got this.”

________________________

As far as he can remember, Brad has never met James Mattis before, but somewhere along the way he apparently did something to drive the man to sit in a hotel in Berlin and shout into his cellphone, “Get Bradley Colbert! This can still work, so long as Colbert is dead!” Maybe that’s what happens if you work too long at the CIA; people become nothing more than pieces on a chessboard. Knight to E4. Checkmate.

Mattis ends the call and tosses his cell across his desk, then he closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. “You’re already here, aren’t you?” he asks the darkness of the room. 

Brad steps out of the shadows, moves slow and notes how Mattis’ eyes scan him from head to toe, like he doesn’t quite believe that Brad’s real. It makes Brad wonder if he has simply forgotten this man. If there was a time, no longer in reach of his memory, when they spoke.

Mattis drags a bottle of scotch from the bottom drawer of his desk and pours himself a glass, then takes a sip. “I suppose it won’t do me much good to cry for help.”

“Not so much.” 

He peers at Brad over the rim of his glass, his eyes fixing steadily with Brad’s. “There were files linking me to the Neski murder. If those files disappeared and they suspected you, they’d be chasing a ghost for ten years.”

“So this was all about money? That’s why you had Neski killed? That’s why you came after Ray, and Walt?”

“Don’t act so fucking self-righteous.” Mattis snorts, takes another sip of his scotch. “You’re a goddamned _assassin_ , Colbert. You think there’s much difference between killing people for money and what I did?”

“I killed people that were dangerous to my country.” Brad hopes it’s truth but he can’t be sure. “You killed people so you could make off with twenty million dollars that you split with a Russian oil tycoon. You honestly don’t see any difference there?”

“Fuck you.”

Brad cocks his gun and holds it trained two inches from Mattis’ forehead. “I told you people to leave me alone. I fell off the grid and was half way around the world.”

Mattis leans forward until the barrel of the gun rests against his head. “There’s nowhere you can go that all of this won’t catch up to you. It’s how every story ends. It’s what you are, Colbert. A killer. And you always will be.” There’s an angry, twisted grin on the man’s face. “Go on and prove me right, Colbert. Shoot me.” When Brad hesitates, Mattis drops his glass of scotch to the floor, slams his hand down on the desk as he orders, “Shoot me!”

Brad uncocks the gun. “I’m not going to shoot you.” He holds up his left hand to show the cassette tape that’s been recording since Mattis picked up his cell phone. “I’m just going to prove you wrong.”


	5. Chapter Four

Evan has never liked James Mattis, which he suspects is why it took him so long to come to the obvious conclusion. In his pursuit of the truth, to find the person responsible for the deaths of his agents and to seek justice he has been making a concerted effort to avoid any potential bias, which meant he overlooked and turned a blind eye on certain details, convinced he was letting his personal feelings color his perception. Now, it's all more or less staring him in the face; no longer possible to avoid, but in the interest of maintaining a veneer of impartiality he tries to avoid it anyway. 

In retrospect, he can see the flaw in this method. Especially when, under any other circumstance, Evan would have acted more sensibly. He would at least have requested Espera accompany him to the hotel, available as back up should the need arise. Instead, Evan is entirely on his own when he strides into Mattis' hotel room saying, "The door was unlocked…" only to find himself facing the barrel of a gun aimed directly at his chest.

James Mattis is sitting at his hotel room desk, his chair facing the door. His right arm, which is currently holding the gun, is braced casually on the wooden armrest. The only light in the space comes from the brass desk lamp that illuminates the man's profile, half of his face lit and the other half in shadow. Somewhat hysterically Evan considers there might be some sort of metaphor there.

Mattis' expression is bland, no indication that he is at all disturbed by his own actions, by the fact that he has a gun trained on a colleague. He says, “I’m a patriot. I serve my country.”

Evan’s thoughts offer a number of sarcastic remarks in answer to this statement. He calculates that ninety-eight percent of these remarks will get him shot, while the other two percent will likely get him punched in the face, and then shot. It doesn’t feel like wasted time though, because the odds of Evan ducking for cover before Mattis can fire his weapon are slim to none. Without any indication of guilt or remorse it seems equally unlikely that Evan might manage to talk the man down, make him rethink his actions. Short of a miracle, Evan is pretty much out of options. 

Mattis stares at him, the gun cocked and aimed, his expression inscrutable. Evan stands very still and tries not to say anything inappropriate. After the silence stretches on he asks, “What do we do now?” 

The other man’s chin jerks upward, defiant. “I’m not sorry.” In one swift movement Evan watches as the other man swings the gun in an upward arch. A brief moment of relief at no longer being held at gunpoint is quickly overrun by the realization that Mattis has braced the weapon beneath his own chin. 

There’s a second when it feels as if time has stopped. Where Evan thinks there is all the time in the world to do something. 

He stands still, his eyes wide.

The gun fires.

________________________

The Berlin train station is busy considering it is almost midnight. Brad finds his locker and opens it. From inside he pulls a small fold of money and exchanges his American ID for a Russian passport, his own face peering up at him from the photo: same face, same eyes, but his hair is dark. The name reads Алексей Варушкин. Alexai Varushkin.

The train to Moscow is already sitting in the station with its doors open, waiting. He nods at the conductor who is strutting along the length of the train with purpose. On board, Brad has no difficulty finding an empty cabin. It’s a direct route and the late hour means there are few other passengers. 

The seats are beige cloth and there’s a faint grid pattern in the fabric. He drops down onto the bench by the window and lets out a sigh, allowing his head to fall back as he closes his eyes. Sitting down, sitting still for what feels like the first time since he woke up in Goa a little under a week ago, Brad realizes the extent of his exhaustion. It goes beyond his twisted ankle, still aching even as he props it on the bench opposite. 

It's the type of exhaustion that sinks deep, through muscle and bone and into the very core of him. For the first time since Goa he isn't being chased, isn't running for his life. Brad estimates that it will take the CIA roughly three hours at minimum to scan through the surveillance footage and determine his destination. He could get lucky; Wright's people could be entirely incompetent and completely miss him because he made some effort to keep his head down and his shoulders hunched, but he refuses to be overconfident and sloppy. 

So, for the next twenty-five hours give-or-take, he’s home free on this train, no one is looking for him here. The adrenaline seeps out of him and leaves him spent. 

Wright's interest in Brad should end when he finds the manila envelope, Brad thinks. If the man really is interested only in finding answers and seeking justice, he'll have everything he needs in there. The last loose end can be easily resolved with a little cooperation from the Russian police, and that's an end to it. 

In the interest of preserving company resources, Wright will probably stop pursuing Brad, but that doesn't necessarily mean the CIA will be satisfied to let him go. It should, however, buy him some more time.

Brad stays awake long enough to hand his passport and ticket over to the provodnitsa, who compliments him on his dye-job and then tells him his hair looks better black. Brad disagrees but rather than argue he smiles and, in perfect Russian, says, “That’s what my mother thinks.” The man laughs and shakes his head and moves on to the next cabin. Brad flips the collar of his coat up and drops his chin down to his chest. 

He falls asleep.

________________________

Nate is sitting at a computer scanning through hours of surveillance footage from around Berlin. It's not a task that he volunteered for. After briefing Espera on what had happened with Brad in the tunnels -- admittedly a highly abridged account -- the other man had brought him up to speed in time for Wright to call-in from the hotel and notify them that James Mattis was dead. 

Espera had looked at Nate with genuine sympathy and concern and offered him the mind-numbing task of sifting through the footage as a means of 'keeping his mind off things'. In this case 'things' meant the suicide of James Mattis. "I'm sorry," Espera had said. "It seemed like he was a bit of a father-figure for you."

Nate had grimaced. "Yeah." There was no point explaining the numerous and varied opinions he had about Mattis, especially as it was to Nate's advantage if Espera went ahead and assumed he was shaken and grieving. So Nate accepted the task with a suitably brittle smile and considered what he should do if Brad shows up in any of the footage he's scanning. 

Wright seems reasonably intelligent and even-handed. At the very least, he has navigated this entire investigation so far without calling-in an asset to eliminate Brad, which is a courtesy Nate hasn't seen extended to the ex-Paris asset since he lost his memories. Dowdy himself had called in about four different assets before he had been killed. Nate believes that Wright's primary concern is seeing that the right thing gets done. The question is, what exactly does Evan Wright consider to be the ‘right’ thing?

Up until a few hours ago it had been running Brad to ground and then hauling him in for questioning. Whether Wright intended to release Brad once he was satisfied is moot, because there is no way the CIA will permit the thirty million dollar, highly trained weapon that is Brad Colbert to walk out of their clutches again.

Two years ago his asset had said, _“I’m not an assassin. I’m done”_ and Nate feels an obligation to protect that request. Bringing Brad in for questioning is not an option. Convincing Wright to step back from pursuing Brad however, seems unlikely.

At that moment, Wright leans out of his office. "Nate," he says, motioning him over when Nate turns from the computer.

Pausing the footage, Nate pushes away from his desk and crosses to Wright's office. "What's up?"

Wright is standing behind his desk, in answer to the question he holds up an opened manila envelope. Nate recognizes Brad's precise printing in black marker across the front: 'For Evan Wright'. Wright looks perturbed more than anything. "Colbert left this for me. The hotel was holding it at the desk.”

Nate buys himself some time to school his expression by turning around and closing the office door. "The Brecker?" he asks when he looks back. He remembers the edge of panic in Brad's voice as he'd demanded to know when he had last been to Berlin. Nate's job as Paris Bravo included being able to answer those sorts of questions without fail. It also included facilitating on difficult assignments that could compromise his asset's combat readiness. 

Nate should have been at the Brecker with Brad. 

Evan shakes his head recalling Nate's attention as he answers, "The Westin Grand." 

Nate isn't certain why Wright called him in here. He doesn't know what's in the envelope. He suspects but has no conclusive proof as to why Mattis shot himself in the head, and Nate very much dislikes being at a disadvantage. He stands still and keeps his expression perfectly schooled. 

Apparently, in his effort to remain professional he has failed to demonstrate the reaction that Wright was looking for. "You don't seem surprised."

Nate shrugs off the question, raising an eyebrow. "Should I be? He found your base of operations, why not your hotel?" Jerking his head at the envelope, he asks, "What is it?"

Wright's shoulders slump and he tosses the envelope onto his desk so his hands are free to rub at his face. "It's everything," he says, and then sighs again. "There's a pretty damning audio recording of Mattis speaking to Russian business tycoon Yuri Gretkov. On the same recording Mattis admits to calling a hit on Colbert in Goa, and my agents in Berlin. Not to mention Vladimir Neski and his wife. There’s some notes in there that fill in the gaps too, though honestly, it's obvious what all this points to.”

Nate stares at the envelope. Mattis was irritable and abrasive and rubbed most everyone the wrong way, but he had taken Nate under his wing and even if they never had much cause to interact with one-another, on the occasions when they did Mattis had been paternalistic; he had never made a secret of his plan to move Nate through the ranks and eventually hand over the reigns. Not that Nate ever wanted that.

Apparently Mattis was also a lying, treasonous, backstabbing bastard.

Nate releases a slow, quiet breath. “What do you need me for?”

Wright meets Nate's eyes head-on. “Is Colbert a threat?” 

For such a seemingly straightforward question, the answer is complex and delicate. Nate weighs his response carefully.   
The CIA cannot allow a credible threat to walk free. Brad’s survived as long as he has because of his training and because he hasn’t let his guard down, not because the CIA has decided to let him go. The simple answer to Wright's question is 'yes'. Yes, of course Brad is a threat, that's what he was trained to be. 

If that is the response Wright is looking for he didn't need to call Nate in here for it, unless it's a test. The man has read Brad's file – what little his clearance might permit him to read, at any rate – so he knows about the training and the ops. He knows what Brad is capable of, and yet he's still asking.

Nate has no intention of walking into a trap when he's come this far. Two years is too long to invest in something just to lose it again because he got careless, because he wanted to trust someone for a change. The number of people Nate actually trusts can be counted off on one hand. Right now, he can't afford for Evan Wright to be among them, not when the man's opinion might affect whether Brad lives or dies.

So Nate lies. "I don't really know him."

“You worked with him as part of Treadstone for years.”

“He’s a different person now,” Nate points out. “He has amnesia.”

“Sure, but amnesia doesn’t make you a completely different person. You met him at Alexanderplatz; you spoke with him.”

“Are you asking my opinion?” Wright flashes him an impatient and frustrated look and Nate tips his head to the side, pretends to be considering the question carefully. “I don’t think he’s a threat.”

"Okay," Wright says, as if this is the answer he was expecting. Nate this finds troubling. “What are you basing that on?”

"You asked my opinion, sir."

Wright looks exhausted. It's clear he's looking for something from Nate, is maybe a little desperate to have someone confirm his own suspicions and so Nate takes pity on him. "If you want facts, I don't have any. His training alone directly contradicts my assessment. You read his file; Colbert was considered a top asset."

"But you still think he isn't a danger."

"Not to us, sir. Not if we leave him be," Nate answers carefully. 

"And Paris?" 

Nate remembers scrambling to figure out what was happening with Brad while simultaneously juggling Schwetje's persistent panicking and Dowdy's demands to green light every asset in their control and send them out after the supposedly renegade asset. Nate also remembers what Dowdy's initial plan had been, and can't help but feel that all of this could have easily been avoided if Mattis hadn't interfered. He's speaking nothing but truth when he says, "In my opinion, Paris was handled improperly. Every indication was that Colbert was retracing his steps, not pursuing the agency. Any collateral damage strikes me as an understandable reaction to circumstances.”

“He assaulted two police officers in Switzerland, to say nothing of the damned embassy." Wright seems to be mulling all of this over, however, which is more than Nate had hoped for. "What about now?" 

Raising his eyebrows, Nate tips his head. “Now?" He shakes his head. "Colbert was living a civilian life under the radar until someone tried to kill him and nearly took out two civilians in the process. He came out of hiding to resolve a situation that threatened not only his life but those of his friends, as well. This time he did it without any fatalities, which I believe is because no one was trying to kill him." Nate doesn't mention that, apparently, _Mattis_ was trying to kill Brad, it goes without saying at this point. 

After a moment, Wright lets out a breath. “Sounds to me like you know him pretty well.”

“Like you said, I worked with him for a few years. You asked for my opinion, sir.”

There’s a quick double knock on the door that cuts off whatever Wright was about to say. A second later the door swings open and Espera steps in, sparing a quick nod at Nate before turning to his boss. “Langley called. They’re going through Mattis’ records. Reyes wants to know what’s going on with Colbert.”

Wright glances over and Nate makes certain to look professional and unconcerned. There's something in the look Wright offers him, but Nate can't determine what the other man is trying to communicate. All he can think is that he is at a crossroads, the next words out of Wright's mouth will determine his course of action.

If Wright issues a kill-order on Brad then it will be Paris all over again. Except this time Nate will have no excuse to be involved. His position will be infinitely more precarious because any orders directed to assets won't be going through him, which would make issuing counter orders and calling in favors damned near impossible to keep secret for long.

It's right then that someone from the main room shouts: “We got him!” 

Wright and Espera are out of the office in a flash. Nate follows, hanging back as everyone crowds around a computer monitor that is showing black and white surveillance footage of the Berlin train station. “That’s Colbert,” someone says. “There he is, he’s just entered frame.” 

“That’s the train to Moscow.” Espera squints at the footage. “What’s he going to Moscow for?”

Two and a half years ago Nate could have answered that question with absolute confidence. Back then he had known Brad almost as well as he'd known himself. Two years ago, after the amnesia, Nate knows he would have hesitated, doubting himself. Now Nate has a solid idea about Brad's destination but Espera isn't directing the question to him, so he keeps it to himself.

Wright says, "Get me the Russian Interior Ministry." Espera turns away from the screen to find a phone. Since no one is calling in an asset and sending out Brad’s picture, Nate’s just happy to sit back and observe. This time, they might actually have made it through just fine.

“You coming?” Wright says a moment later, rushing out of his office and pulling on his coat as he goes.

The question catches him off-guard. As Deputy Director, Wright should be ordering him back to the Madrid outpost, back to work. He wonders if Wright hasn't yet figured out that by the time he arrives in Moscow Brad will have gone to ground again. Nate has already briefed Wright on everything the man's clearance allows him to know about Treadstone. For all intents and purposes his function here has been completed.

The other possibility is that Wright is inviting Nate along because he thinks Nate might like to know how all of this wraps up. As a courtesy. What's dangerous there is that Nate has done everything in his power to portray a worn-out Bravo agent who has turned gun-shy following a fiasco so extensive it shut down an entire operation. If Wright believed that act then he'd be offering Nate the first flight out, not giving him the chance to continue monitoring the operation; to potentially run into Brad again.

Pursing his lips, he asks, "Sir, shouldn't I be returning to Madrid?" 

Wright looks back at him. "Sure, I can arrange that, if you want. But wouldn't you rather come with us to Moscow?"

________________________

There’s a huddle of cab drivers in the parking lot outside the train station. It would be simple enough to steal a car, but even in Russia cab drivers have cell phones and radios and Brad needs to be kept in the loop. Undoubtedly the CIA will make some kind of effort to reclaim him, to say nothing of the Gretkov, the man who was working with Mattis. 

Gretkov is most likely the one responsible for actually calling-in the hit on Brad, which means there's a strong likelihood that the assassin who shot Ray in Goa is also somewhere around the city as well. All of these are very good reasons to take a cab. 

Three police cars zip by heading into the station with their sirens blaring as Brad’s taxi pulls out. He wonders if Wright’s team is really that slow, or if the man just gave him a head start. It doesn’t matter either way; it’s not like Brad will ever have the opportunity to ask.

It‘s a fifteen-minute drive to the six-story stone apartment building, just off the main road. The landlady is sweeping the front steps with a straw broom, and after the second ring of the doorbell Brad turns to her. “Excuse me,” he asks in Russian. “I’m looking for the girl who lives at number forty-eight. Do you know her?”

The woman glances up and stops sweeping. “Yes, the Neski girl. She doesn’t live here anymore. She moved away from this place.” She gives Brad a new address, and then turns along with him as the taxi that had been waiting for him suddenly revs its engine and speeds away. “He was in some hurry.” 

“Looks like,” Brad says, watching as the car speeds around a corner and disappears out of sight. “Thank you for your help.” 

The warning didn’t come as early as he’d hoped. As he strides down the street he can already hear police sirens closing in on his position and the only thing he can think about is getting off the main road. Brad can't move as quickly as he'd like because his ankle still hurts. He’s been limping since he left Berlin and it makes him a noticeable figure -- too noticeable. Walking is not ideal; he needs to find a vehicle, and quickly.

Crossing the street toward the bridge, Brad cuts down a staircase to a cement sidewalk running parallel to the river. Briefly, he considers stopping beneath the bridge long enough for the sirens pass, but dismisses the idea. His current position will be obvious once the police consult with the woman he spoke with and learn what direction he went. For now, his best option is to keep moving.

There’s the screech of tires behind him and he reassesses the situation. At his three o’clock is an icy river that is too cold to even consider leaping into; at his nine is a cement wall that he doesn’t have time to climb, given the state of his ankle. He’s stuck moving either forward or back and the only advantage he has lies in trying to blend in, which is difficult to do with his damned ankle fucked up. He keeps moving.

There’s the low snap of a silenced gunshot and a punch in his left shoulder that sends Brad pitching forward onto the snow-covered ground. Now he has a twisted ankle and a bullet in his shoulder. He’s bleeding heavily and the pain is significant, but it probably won’t matter for long because the next shot will likely be through his head. 

Brad turns around. There's a man standing on the bridge, his arm extended as he levels the gun. It’s the same man Brad remembers seeing in Goa, the one who shot Ray. Out of options, Brad calculates his odds and doesn't like what he ends-up with. He could make it into the river before the man can discharge his weapon again, but trying to swim in below-freezing water with a bullet lodged in his shoulder won't be pretty. Not to mention the fact that the river is on a predictable course through the city. He'll pop up, soaking wet and suffering the effects of hypothermia and chances are high that this guy will already be waiting for him.

On the other hand, if Brad tries to run he'll be shot down before he makes it three steps. Instead, Brad stands still and waits for the inevitable second shot. 

It doesn’t come. 

Instead there are more sirens and the drifting sound of shouts. The man drops his gun and moves his hands behind his head, which is when Brad realizes the Russian police have the guy surrounded. He's yelling at them, trying to indicate his right pocket -- probably he has a badge, real or fake. Brad knows the man is trained, it’s possible he’s Russian secret service, or maybe he’s a corrupt cop. Either way, he’ll get clear of the police without trouble because he has friends in high places. 

Brad doesn’t linger. 

Around the bend in the river is another staircase back up to the street. He walks one block above ground before cutting down to a labyrinth of underground shops. He needs to do something about his bullet wound because he’s losing blood too quickly; he can feel it dripping down his arm and off his fingertips. It’s leaving a trail. The blood is warm on his skin; the rest of him feels cold.

There are no useful shops in the underground plaza. No pharmacy or grocery store. Brad keeps moving and tries to ignore the hot biting ache that is his shoulder, the piercing stab that reaches a little further up his leg with every step. Just ahead a small child screeches and wails and stomps a foot only to be picked up by her father and carried along. Brad wants to sit down.

There’s row after row of nothing but clothes stores and shoe stores and walking is draining him too quickly. He hasn't put enough distance between himself and the assassin but Brad doesn’t have much of a choice. He needs transportation; at the very least he needs something that he can use to staunch the bleeding. He cuts up the next staircase he sees and huffs out a laugh when he comes face to face with a bright green sign for a produktovyy. 

His luck lasts for about three minutes because the moment he walks through the front door of the grocery store he notes the two security guards. At the moment, Brad is far from looking his best: there’s blood dripping off the fingers of his left hand, he’s limping and moving fast because he’s being followed. With the amount of blood he’s lost he estimates that he’s extremely pale with darkening circles beneath his eyes. There’s a thin sheen of sweat that he can feel on his skin, and the dizziness is making him stagger like he’s drunk. 

The guards take note of him more or less immediately. That’s okay because they’re standard security. He can take them down, even wounded as he is. The fact that they’re already following him means he doesn’t need to be subtle, which means that he can move faster. 

He grabs a map of Moscow from a rack by one of the cash registers, picks up a stack of thick cotton socks (on sale, six pair for eighty five rubles), and a tall bottle of Vodka off a shelf beside the Chef Boyardee. Lifting his arm for the bottle sends a wave of dizziness over him and he staggers, fumbling his grip and sending five cans of soup and two bottles of vodka crashing onto the floor. It’s all the permission the security guards will need to start something. 

Brad slips the vodka into his pocket and pulls out his gun, holding it up as he rounds the corner, right in the face of one of the guards. “Get down,” he orders in Russian. 

Half the civilians in the grocery follow his orders, dropping to the floor along with the guard, but the rest go spilling out the front entrance, causing a scene. Whatever time he had, it’s lost. Brad spares a moment to kick the guard’s gun out of reach and then he hurries out the back entrance. 

He steps out onto a narrow street, cars parked along the curb, a row of cabs standing and waiting on the opposite side, the cab drivers in a huddle, smoking. There is a large truck delivering bread, and a standard white police car moving slowly in his direction. The lights and sirens are off, but it’s only a matter of time. 

Apparently, he can’t catch a break. 

Brad takes a swig of his vodka as he heads toward a taxicab but doesn’t swallow it. “Hey, asshole,” the cab driver says, breaking away from his friends. “Get away from my car.” 

The cab driver reaches him at the same moment the police step out of their vehicle, pulling their batons from their belts. Cops have procedures. They have rules about everything, including how to approach someone who may be dangerous. They’re too slow, for one, and spend too much time making certain they have appropriately identified themselves as officers. As if that will be enough of a deterrent. Maybe for most people, it would be.

Brad doesn’t wait to see what they’ll do next. When they're close enough he turns his head and spits his mouthful of vodka directly into their faces blinding them. Then he strikes out, two hits to the gut and one to the head, the men topple back onto the asphalt, groaning and rubbing at their eyes and stomachs like they're not sure what hurts more. After that, the cab driver raises his hands and actually tosses Brad the keys.

The thing about high-speed car chases is that they’re really only fun if you know the area. Brad doesn’t know Moscow at all. There are two police cars on his six the moment he pulls onto the main road, their sirens blaring. Most likely there’s backup on the way. 

The people pursuing him know Moscow. Also, they’re not slowly bleeding out because of a goddamned bullet wound in their shoulder. Brad’s trying to navigate the roads without killing anyone. He’s got the map he stole from the grocery propped on the wheel, glancing at it when he can. There’s a streak of blood obscuring a portion of downtown Moscow because he’s still bleeding, the bundle of socks and the alcohol both riding shotgun but not, as yet, of use since all his attention is focused on the road.

His first goal is to get to a fairly long stretch of narrow road, which he finds after taking a sharp right turn onto a one-way street with parked cars clogging the shoulders. It forces his pursuers to drop behind him single-file, which gives him a time to concentrate on other things, like first aid.

Shrugging his coat off his left shoulder Brad pulls his shirt aside and then pours the alcohol directly onto the gunshot wound. “Fuck,” he snarls. He’s not sure if he means this about the searing pain in his shoulder, or because he sees another police car joining the group tailing him down the street. He makes a grab for the socks as the corridor of parked cars falls away as the narrow one-way connects to an uncluttered main road. 

Out of the corner of his eye Brad spots a police car bearing right down on him but there’s not enough time to do anything but brace for the impact. The car slams right into the side of his car denting the driver's side door and sending him into a tailspin. 

“Mother _fucker_!” he hisses, steering into the skid. “Don’t they teach you _fucking_ idiots how to drive in a high speed chase?” He slams his foot onto the gas pedal and the back end of his yellow car fishtails before straightening out. Idly, he thinks about road safety rules: wearing your seat belt, not disabling your air bags, and staying focused on the road. Not to mention not bleeding all over your steering wheel. Brad leans over and snatches for the map that has fallen down into the foot well on the passenger’s side.

There are no clever narrow streets here in which Brad can lose his pursuers. His stolen cab is the same size as the standard police vehicles anyway. He never thought it would ever happen, but Brad finds himself sparing a fond thought for Ray’s obnoxious orange monstrosity and its ability to fit into narrow places.

He drives into a parking lot half on accident because there is no clear demarcation of where the road ends and the lot begins. Apparently, boulevards are rare in Moscow. One of the cops on his six stops on the road, anticipating his doubling back, and another slams into a parked car. Brad starts to feel a bit optimistic as he finishes tying off a sock-tourniquet around his shoulder. 

There’s an empty parking spot just ahead, which Brad pulls through, bouncing onto the sidewalk and then out onto the main road once more as pedestrians leap out of his way and shout high-pitched Russian profanity at him. He’s driving with the traffic but he’s traveling well above the speed limit. There’s one police car on his six, with another rushing to catch up, but he’s made some headway. 

Then out of nowhere a giant black Jeep cuts in front of him, clipping the front-end of the cab as Brad slides into a turn. It’s startling. He didn’t see the Jeep coming. Brad checks the rearview and recognizes the face behind the wheel.   
The assassin has found him. 

It was inevitable but Brad had sort of hoped he’d have more time. He punches the gas. Instead of following, the Jeep drives away down another street, which doesn't alleviate any of Brad’s stress. The assassin knows these roads, Brad doesn’t. He keeps driving, checking his rearview and glancing to the left and right whenever he can. He spots the Jeep, heading along the road on the opposite side of the river, which runs perfectly parallel to the road Brad is on. Ahead, he can see a bridge where both roads intersect, undoubtedly where the assassin plans to ambush him again. 

As he gets closer, a white and green accordion-style bus passes in front of him heading across the bridge and Brad braces himself, cranks the wheel hard left dropping into a lane alongside it. With any luck, the assassin will drive straight past him before he realizes where Brad has gone and they'll pass each other without either of them having to get hurt. Brad's not kidding himself, he'd probably be the one to get hurt.

Except then Brad remembers that he doesn’t seem to _have_ any luck.

He crosses the river safely and when he relinquishes the relative security of the bus, he spots the Jeep, which is now driving in reverse. When there’s a gap in traffic the assassin spins his vehicle around and then he’s right back on Brad’s tail, uncomfortably close. Brad hasn’t even managed to lose the two cop cars.

The brand new Jeep far outclasses the piece of shit ancient yellow taxicab that Brad is driving, and with the option to outdrive the other man off the table, Brad has no choice but to outmaneuver him. 

Just ahead is Brad’s destination: a tunnel bridge four lanes wide. He gets T-boned crossing a four-lane roadway but Brad spins into the skid and keeps on driving merging into the faster moving tunnel traffic. He loses one of the police vehicles to a 24-foot moving truck that fails to break in time. 

The Jeep and the other police car are still in pursuit.

Brad plays cat and mouse with the Jeep, civilian vehicles skidding out, around, and crashing in their wake. He can’t help noticing that the police have fallen well behind. He still hears their sirens but can’t see any sign of their vehicles. 

All around other vehicles are slowing down, stopping, and generally trying to get out of the way. The last high-speed chase that Brad can remember was in Paris, no one even seemed to register there was anything unusual happening around them on the road. This makes for a welcome change.

Of course, it is rush hour and there are still some drivers who carry on, oblivious or determined, while Brad swerves around them as best he can. He uses a brown Lincoln as a buffer against the looming Jeep, but the threat of civilian casualties hasn’t stopped either one of them yet and the Jeep steers hard to the right, pushing Brad’s cab against the wall of the tunnel, pinned by the Lincoln, which is in turn pinned by the truck. 

If Ray were in the vehicle he would undoubtedly be making perverse three-way jokes. It’s impossible to decide whether the metal of both vehicles screeching shrilly like nails scraping down a chalkboard is preferable to Ray’s bawdy humor. Brad can see the driver of the Lincoln yelling at him but then the assassin in the Jeep holds up his gun and fires a shot and Brad has to duck out of the way, crouching awkwardly in an effort to drive and avoid being shot. Again. 

The Jeep and Brad’s cab are both moving much faster than the man caught between them, and as their cars pull forward the Lincoln spins out of control in their wake. Brad doesn’t have time to think about the driver of that car because he’s focusing on gaining enough headway to avoid getting pinned against the wall again.

The next time the Jeep presses him to the right he's pulled far enough ahead to avoid being trapped. It's only the rear of the vehicle that’s caught and when Brad cranks the wheel to the left the cab goes, until he has spun a complete circle around onto the Jeep’s other side. Driving in reverse, Brad holds his gun out the broken glass of his window and takes the front wheel of the Jeep with four quick, successive shot. The tire blows out. 

Advantage gained, Brad switches gears and spins his car around, the nose of the cab pressed to the side of the Jeep mid-spin, so that the cab is driving both vehicles forward. Brad punches down on the gas and drives unrelentingly on, the assassin still trying to line up a shot since he can’t manage to disengage the vehicles. He’s oblivious to where he is heading. 

At the last moment Brad yanks out his seatbelt, leaning over and gripping it hard as he braces his legs wide. They slam into the concrete divider separating northbound traffic from westbound. The collision knocks the breath out of him but the moment he’s steady enough, Brad climbs out of his car, his gun trained on the driver’s side of the Jeep as he approaches.

Everything hurts. His vision is half blurred and his head is thrumming and spinning. He’s half staggering as he walks. When he’s close enough to the Jeep to make out the driver Brad realizes that the gun isn’t necessary. The assassin is collapsed onto the passenger side, his face covered in blood, the man’s breaths coming slower and slower.

He wants to ask if this was worth it. If the man was fighting to protect something important, or if it is just a job, was just a job. Was the money good enough to warrant all of this? Not too long ago Brad wasn’t so different from this man. It was _his_ job to kill people, and he did that job with little compunction. He’s fairly certain there was no heroic backstory there; he had found something he could do well, so he did it. He doesn’t have delusions about himself. He won’t ever be a hero. But whoever that person was, it was someone he _used_ to be.

Brad tucks the gun back into his pocket. Turning, he walks out of the tunnel.

________________________

Yuri Gretkov is not a difficult man to locate. Like most businessmen he keeps to a predictable schedule, which is kept on his phone, as well as on his assistant's phone, to say nothing of the black leather agenda book his assistant keeps at her desk. Since Evan is more or less through leaving anything to chance he orders the man followed the second he gets off the line with the Russian Interior Ministry. 

Between the CIA agents dogging Gretkov's footsteps and the Russian police waiting in the wings to swoop down on the man, there probably isn't much of a reason for Evan to make the trip but he does it anyway. Closure, he thinks. That's all he's interested in. 

“So that’s it?” Espera asks as they stand on the street corner, watching a startled Gretkov being pressed face-first against the side of a dark sedan and handcuffed. “All the loose ends wrapped up?”

Fick is standing a few feet away, his hands in his coat pockets as he watches the arrest. Evan nods. "All the loose ends that matter."

Everyone at the agency -- the ones not reeling from shock -- are heralding this as a big win. They keep congratulating Evan like he’s responsible but all he can think is that without Colbert, Evan would probably still be running around chasing leads until the CIA got tired of paying expenses and getting nothing in return. 

Espera heads back to their car after Gretkov is ushered into the backseat of the sedan and driven off. Evan watches from the sidewalk as the car disappears down the road. When it's out of sight, he moves to stand beside Fick. "I wanted to thank-you for your help on this."

Fick keeps still but his green eyes shift, fixing on Evan. "Is that on the record?"

Evan smiles. "Yeah. Of course." He fights the urge to question the other man about Colbert, to ask what exactly happened in Paris. Fick is a walking contradiction, he is imperturbable, so carefully controlled and capable; and yet fragile, vulnerable, maybe even naive. Evan is having a hard time imagining this man running from anything but he can't deny that the reassignment to Madrid is precisely that.

Somewhere along the way Evan has found himself hoping that all Fick really needed was time. Maybe after this the agent's confidence will be restored. Even if it doesn't seem all that likely, Evan still finds himself blurting, “I can get you transferred to New York.” 

The frown he gets is a little disappointing. He can’t tell if Nate's confusion is feigned or genuine. “New York?”

“Or Langley," Evan offers. "If you don’t want to work one-on-one with assets then okay, but you don’t need to be stuck pushing papers behind a desk.”

When Fick turns both his eyebrows are raised, there's a sparking brightness in his eyes. “Evan, I _asked_ for the Madrid posting.” A bit of the disbelief Evan is feeling must show on his face because Fick smirks. “You know, Madrid is kind of a nice city.”

“Sure, I’m not arguing on the city, but everyone knows that outpost is a dead end. There’s no division of labor, there’s Eckloff, and then there’s his secretary, and you have an awful lot of training and field experience to be a secretary.” The other man's expression is a flat, inscrutable mask and so Evan gives-up. “At least _think_ about the transfer.”

Fick tips his head forward, not quite a nod but Evan suspects it's as much as he can hope for. He lets the issue drop. “I should head back to the hotel. I have to get my bags packed for the flight.”

“You unpacked?” 

“Yeah. Didn’t you?” He remembers the small black carry-on bag that Fick had brought onto the plane. No checked bags. Fick travels the same way Colbert does, and it's another thing that he wants to ask about. 

He's read the man's file. Fick’s easygoing, unassuming and quick-witted and Evan keeps thinking that the man is like Espera, but Espera's personnel file has no black lines. There is nothing that Tony Espera has done that Evan isn't cleared to know about. Fick, however, is shrouded in mystery. Evan gets the feeling the man prefers it that way. 

“Aren’t you coming to the hotel?” he asks, halting when Fick doesn’t fall in step with him.

“I’ve got another stop to make. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

There's a theory that he has been kicking around for a while, based purely on intuition rather than any actual proof. Fick's behavior doesn't even lend support to this idea and sure, Evan knows it's ludicrous and maybe a little fanciful. The thing is, it doesn't add up. Fick was a Recon Marine, was recruited and trained for the CIA and then handpicked and trained some more for Treadstone. He became a Bravo agent through what Evan suspects was a trial-by-fire, and all reports support the picture of Fick as a highly capable agent.

What happened in Paris was a mess, there's no way around that. As far as Evan can see though, nothing happened that would explain why an agent of Fick's caliber would get rattled. _So rattled_ , in fact, that he would stop working with assets _altogether_. Something's missing; something that isn’t in the files.

After this mess with Colbert, Evan is willing to admit the awe and reverence reserved for Treadstone assets is well deserved, which makes him wonder about Treadstone _agents_. Fick doesn’t seem like the sort to souvenir shop, and as far as he knows there's no other stop the man might need to make. 

Fick's easygoing, unassuming and quick-witted. He's spent the majority of his time with the CIA passing as a student studying abroad. Evan’s done with taking things at face value. “Once a Bravo agent, always a Bravo agent?” he asks.

The corner of Fick's mouth quirks up and he dips his head forward, looking up from beneath a fringe of auburn hair. “Something like that.”

Evan's got a theory but it’s only gut instinct and the CIA isn’t interested in his gut, no reason why they would feel any differently about his theory. Especially when really, it’s not any of their business anyway.

________________________

The Orannyi Projects are just outside the city. A claustrophobic stretch of four tall, wide buildings walling off a parking lot and courtyard, eerie green-yellow fluorescent lights spilling out in vertical lines from windows that Brad thinks might be kitchens or bathrooms beside other windows of orange-bright warmth. The streetlamps in the courtyard are not lit when he walks up to the building he’s looking for. 

He calculates the odds of having an opportunity to speak Irena Neski as slightly better if he is already in her apartment when she comes home. True, he isn’t thinking very clearly as a result of blood loss, but Brad is aware that presently he doesn't cut a very respectable figure. Irena lives alone, in Moscow, in the Projects. A young woman on her own is not going to invite a strange man into her home. 

Not if she’s got any sense, anyway.

Brad loses count of the stairs he climbs on his way to the apartment but once he gets there it’s easy to pick the lock to get inside. He re-locks the door behind himself and leaves the lights off. He doesn't touch anything, he wants to talk to her, not investigate her space. Besides, every part of him is aching and he’s exhausted. It’s just about all he can do to find his way to a chair at the kitchen table, and then he collapses into it to sit and wait, half-dozing but always listening.

It’s not a long wait. The sun has only just begun to set when he hears the jangle of keys at the front door and Irena’s soft footsteps as she walks into her apartment, kicking off her boots, hanging her coat in the front closet and tossing her keys aside. 

She steps through into the kitchen and her wide brown eyes fix on him immediately, her whole body freezes. “Quiet,” he says, speaking in soft Russian. “Keep silent, all right?” 

She nods, her eyes flicking over him where he sits, and then around the room. Brad wonders if she is looking for something with which to defend herself, or if she’s checking to see if anything has been moved or taken. “I don’t have any money or drugs.”

“Sit down.” She doesn’t move, keeps her back pressed to the wall. “Please.”

Frowning, she settles on the edge of a floral patterned armchair, her hands tucked beneath her knees as she hunches forward, her long blonde hair falling over her shoulder. Her eyes shift and fix somewhere just below Brad's shoulder. 

After a second, it occurs to him that she's staring at the gun he's been holding in his hand. He'd meant to put it away before she came home but he'd forgotten about it. “Sorry.” He tucks it quickly into his coat pocket. He never intended to threaten her, that he had to intrude on her space to speak with her is regrettable, but necessary. He’s caused her enough pain as it is; it is not his intention to cause even more. 

“I speak English,” she offers.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Brad hurriedly says in English, then repeats it again, slower, holding both his hands up so she can see he has no weapons. “I won’t hurt you.” On the table beside her chair is a photograph of a man and a woman, smiling into the camera as they hold their young daughter up between them. Brad nods at it. “That picture. It means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

She breathes a shaky breath, her eyes involuntarily shifting over to the photograph. She meets his stare evenly and Brad finds himself admiring her courage. “It’s nothing,” she lies. “It’s just a picture.”

“It’s because you don’t know how they died.”

Her chin jerks up. “I do.”

Brad shakes his head slowly. “No. You don’t.”

He’s not certain why he’s here except for the firm belief that if their positions were reversed, he would want to know the truth. He would want to know what had happened to his parents. It’s not a trend he intends to pick up; there are a number of faces he remembers, names written in his book, but Brad has no intention of seeking out their families and making explanations. 

They were bad people doing bad things. For the most part, he doesn’t feel especially guilty.

Her parents, though, are another matter. They're dead because of his mistake, his naïveté, and that’s something he’ll learn to live with, will _have_ to live with, but there’s no reason why anyone else should suffer. So Brad says, “Your mother didn’t kill your father.”

This time when her eyes drift down Brad realizes Irena's looking at his left hand, which is streaked with blood. The entire left arm of his jacket is damp with it and he’s been battling dizziness for a while. He wonders if she’ll want to kill him for what he did. Wonders if she will cry.

“It was my job.” Brad notes the way her jaw clenches and her eyes widen. “It was my first time. Your father was supposed to be alone, but your mother decided to surprise him, and I had to change my plan.” It shouldn’t sound as simple as it does. He could explain the politics behind it, why her father suddenly had to die. That there was no good reason except for two men and their greed, and his inexperience that made him follow the directive so blindly. He could tell her that it’s a mistake he’s struggling with, and that he’s sorry. 

He doesn’t say any of that. Brad doesn’t need her to forgive him, he just wants her to know the truth, for her own sake. “Your mother didn’t kill your father. She didn’t kill herself.” He licks his lips, forces himself to say, “I killed them.”

There are tears sliding down Irena’s face but she is utterly silent. “It changes things, that knowledge. When what you love is taken from you, you want to know the truth.” Brad gets up and crosses the room, pauses by her chair wanting so much to offer an apology. He stops himself. Is he sorry for making her cry, or for bringing up past hurts, or for taking her parents away from her? 

Sorry is such a small word, such an _inadequate_ word, when there is so much to be sorry for. 

He leaves her to grieve, to carry on and move on in a way he doesn’t think she could have done before.

When he steps back outside he doesn’t feel the cold so much but he feels every ache in his body, from the pinching burn from the bullet that’s lodged in his shoulder to the dizziness from the blood he’s still losing, though at a less alarming rate. He’s tired, so incredibly tired that he briefly considers sitting down right where he’s standing. The only thing that stops him is that he knows if he stops now he won't start again. 

At the moment, the only thing holding him up is sheer force of will and his own innate stubbornness. 

The sky is turning a dark, purpling grey in preparation for night. Brad is fairly certain that he should feel itchy: all those windows, each one a perfect hiding place for a sniper. There could be a squad of police cars around the corner, waiting; he could be heading directly into a trap. He doesn’t feel any of that. Instead, he feels the same rushing sense of relief that he felt on the train. 'Home free' he thinks, for the moment at least.

There are only a handful of people in the wide expanse of the courtyard and Brad is perfectly aware that he has the full attention of one of them. The figure stands in the middle of the small circular bricked spot where all the paths converge. He’s wearing a long dark coat with the collar turned up around his neck, his hands hanging loose at his sides. He’s staring right at Brad. 

Brad keeps a steady pace, his limp slowing him down but he’s not worried because he’s not running away. When he’s close enough he asks, “Does Evan want to send me a ‘thank you’ card for finding his mole?”

Nate’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still quiet and calm; it’s still intensely scrutinizing. “I’m not here on behalf of the CIA.”

“Are you stalking me now?” It’s a little embarrassing that what was supposed to be a teasing statement comes out sounding choked and hopeful. Brad doesn’t know this man but sometimes it feels like he maybe remembers him. 

The corner of Nate’s mouth quirks up just slightly. Brad wonders why the man always seems to fight the impulse to smile. “Is she okay?” Nate's eyes shift quickly up toward Irena's apartment and then back to Brad. 

He hesitates, sifting through the tones in the question. Does Nate think that he came all this way to tie up a loose end that was never really a loose end to begin with? Nate seems calm; relaxed and casual. Brad realizes that more likely, Nate is simply wondering how the exchange went. Regardless, Brad's aware he sounds a bit sharp when he says, “She’s _fine_.” Pale copper eyebrows hitch upward at his tone. Brad clears his throat awkwardly. “She’ll _be_ fine. At least now she knows what happened.”

There’s a kind of warmth in Nate’s green eyes that has Brad unconsciously shifting forward. He halts after one step when he realizes what he’s doing. Nate hasn’t stepped back in an effort to maintain the distance between them, but he hasn’t moved forward either. Brad’s not sure what conclusion he should be drawing here.

They stand there quietly, a foot apart, the silence stretching between them before Nate clears his throat. “Evan is still looking for you.”

“Let him look. What part of ‘I am done with this’ do they not understand?”

“I don’t think it’s that easy to walk away from the CIA, Brad. Besides, Evan’s not trying to kill you, he just wants to talk.”

Brad shifts again, restless. He licks his lips. “You called me ‘Brad.’”

Nate’s eyebrows draw together. “That’s your name.”

“You’re one of three people who calls me ‘Brad’. Everybody else calls me ‘Bradley’, or ‘Colbert’.”

This time the smile isn’t hiding, half-suppressed, at the corner of Nate’s mouth; it stretches, a smooth curve, until it lights his eyes. “I know a thing or two about you.” 

Brad wants to ask what it is that Nate knows. He wants to confirm what he thought back in the tunnels when he pressed the other man against the wall and caught the scent of cloves and citrus. He wants to ask if Nate is the one who travels around the world and describes everything he sees like a bedtime story that soothes Brad into sleep; if he’s the one who quotes Seneca at unlikely times; if he reads _The Odyssey_ and makes scrunched yet precise notes in the margins -- if he’s maybe missing his copy because then Brad can explain that he thinks he might have it. 

All Brad can manage to say is, “Yeah?”

Nate drops his head, hiding away his smile. When he looks up again his face is calm again, steady. There’s a brightness in his eyes that Brad can see though, and it makes him think that maybe Nate has an answer for each of the questions he can’t quite bring himself to ask. “You should see a doctor for that shoulder, Brad. Get your leg looked at while you’re there.”

“I’m _fine_.”

There's another flash of that grin. “I know,” and when the grin settles Nate's expression isn't quite neutral, Brad can see amusement glinting in those green eyes. For some reason his completely inaccurate assessment of his own physical state has pleased the other man. “Do it anyway.”

Nate steps back and it feels wrong somehow, like they are polarized magnets being pulled apart. Another step, and Brad has successfully quelled any urge he has to reach out. He holds himself perfectly still, keeps his expression neutral. Nate slips his hands into his coat pockets. "I’ll see you around.” Then he turns and starts walking away. 

Rocking forward onto the balls of his feet Brad raises his voice to carry over the distance. “You’re not going to tell me where you live?” 

“You’ll find me.” Nate’s voice drifts back on the crisp wind, steady and perfectly confidant. 

Nate works for the people that Brad is trying to walk away from. Finding him would mean Brad will probably get tangled up with the CIA all over again. After the high-speed car chases, the three different road accidents he has had in a single afternoon, the bullet currently lodged in his shoulder, the general mess that is his leg, and the overall ache that is his body, it doesn’t feel like hyperbole to say that he barely survived this round.

Smiling, Brad turns on his heel, walking in the opposite direction. Hopefully a taxi will be parked nearby and he won’t have to stand around in the cold while his leg gets even more stiff and painful. He’ll go to a doctor, but only because he’s fairly certain the odds of fishing a bullet out of his own shoulder and still having full use of it after only a short recovery time are against him.

After that, he’s not certain where he’ll end-up but at least now he knows what he’ll be looking for.


End file.
